Act of Nature
Part 1by Jane Davitt and WesleysGirl
Rating: NC-17
Giles/Xander
Thanks to LadyGaladriel04 for the beta, and to Stumbelina for the incredibly lovely banner. Extra special thanks to Jane, for conducting this experiment with me. The title and quoted lyrics are from Cheryl Wheeler's "Act of Nature."
1.
Someone said I should hear
Warning cries soft and clear
Whispered in the calm before the storm
Giles waited for the Iona ferry to dock with a passivity that might have passed for patience to the casual observer. He had left London early that morning, each leg of his journey becoming shorter and slower as he swapped plane for car and car for boat. The driving urgency to reach his destination had left him with his first glimpse of the island, and now feet that had paced an airport lounge and pressed hard against the accelerator pedal in his hired car felt rooted to the rough concrete.
He looked beyond the looming, sturdy lines of the ferry to the small island. Iona's white sand beaches lay wind-smoothed and soft and the rocks and thin, short grass were a blur of grey and green to his tired eyes.
As if the volume had been suddenly turned up, he realized that he'd spent the last few minutes with a verse running through his head and allowed his lips to silently shape the words, hoping that would stop their endless loop through a mind that wanted nothing but emptiness for a while.
"The earth, it is the Lord's,
The sea and all that it contains;
Except the boats and piers,
And they are all MacBrayne's"
The ferry docked finally, nudging against the mooring with an ominous grinding noise as the swell of the waves rocked it back and forth. Giles bent to pick up his suitcases as the gangway was lowered. The worn leather handles cut into his palms. They were heavy; they had lain open in his flat for two days as he packed them with the thick sweaters and jeans he knew he'd need for a Christmas in Scotland, carefully folding, tucking and smoothing. He'd taken pleasure in the packing, making it part of his holiday as he tried to guess what he'd need. Binoculars and guide books, camera and walking boots... all there between the layers of warm, casual clothing and brightly wrapped gifts for Xander. This morning, he'd tossed a random selection of last minute items on top in a careless jumble, and closed them both, hearing them snap shut without being able to picture himself opening them.
Because that would happen after he'd arrived, after he'd spoken to Xander, and somehow his thoughts couldn't push past raising his hand to knock at the door of Traighshee House, and unpacking the cases he held was impossibly distant in space and time. And now that his journey was almost over, and what had been distant was half an hour away at most, he still couldn't imagine the smooth slide of metal clasps under his fingers and the familiar creak as the lids were raised.
The clear, pale sky was scattered with mackerel clouds, a warning sign of rain, and the thin winter sunlight was bright without warmth. Giles forced himself to walk onto the ferry, squinting up at the man who stood at the top of the gangway, waiting to cast off on the short trip back to Iona.
The ferry man was as well-weathered as one might have expected -- probably no more than ten years older than himself, but looking far older, his face cragged and lined from what Giles presumed was decades, if not a lifetime, living by the sea. He nodded his head slightly and stepped to one side as Giles reached the top of the ramp and the barely-steadier footing of the ferry itself.
"Don't get a lot of visitors this time of year," the man said in a rough voice. "Hard to keep a regular schedule." It sounded as if it might have been an apology.
Tiredness made the unfamiliar accent hard to understand at first. Giles let the words run through his mind, sorting them out until they made sense, knowing that once he adjusted to their rhythm he would appreciate the musical lilt that made even this man's husky voice appealing after the sharp, clipped London voices he was used to. Finally, after a pause that seemed too long to his ears, he answered, "I'm sure it must be, but there's no rush, is there? Not here."
"Not here," the man agreed, as Giles moved over toward the overhang that would, in bad weather, protect the rows of seating from the rain and set down his suitcases there, where they wouldn't be in anyone's way.
Not that that was likely, as it seemed to be just the two of them.
As the gangway was raised again, the man asked, "Come for the holidays, have you?"
Giles leaned against the railing, staring down into water as clear as glass. Fronds of seaweed, black and slimy, lay in ribbons on the rocks piled up around the pier, but in the water they floated in a dense mass. The sun went in and the water turned opaque and grey. Giles glanced up at the dark clouds rushing in from the mainland and shivered.
"Yes." Seeing faint disapproval of his brief answer, and driven by politeness to respond, no matter how much his own inclination was for silence, Giles added, "I'm spending Christmas at Traighshee House. Do you know it?"
As soon as the question left his mouth, he realized how foolish it would sound.
The groan of the ferry's engines changed to a higher-pitched rumble as it moved away from the pier and started for the opposite shore, and the man had to raise his voice slightly over them to be heard. "Aye. I've delivered some supplies meant to be going there over the past months. Doing a big renovation, are they?"
Relieved that the man was courteous enough not to point out that on an island barely four miles long there was little that wasn't common knowledge, Giles nodded. Selecting his words, he replied, "That's right. The house belongs to the company I work for, but it's not been used for some time. The report we had seemed to indicate problems with damp, some rooms need extending, and we need to add more bathrooms -- " Xander had been quite vocal about that, and remembering the hell of Buffy's house first thing in the morning during those last weeks in Sunnydale, Giles couldn't disagree. "It is a big project, but from what I hear, it's going well."
That wasn't quite true. Xander's phone calls to Giles in the first weeks had been full of frustration at the slow, leisured pace the workmen set. He had a crew of five, but it was rare for all of them to show up, especially if the fish were biting or there was more money to be made ferrying tourists around. Giles had counseled patience and tact, then watched, amused, as the island cast its spell on Xander. When Xander spent ten minutes telling him about the salmon he'd caught, before moving on to the impossibility of getting Fergus to take lunch breaks shorter than two hours, he'd been pleased and a little envious.
"Haven't heard any complaints," the older man answered, as if he had his pulse on the heartbeat of the island and would be the one to know.
The smell of salt in the air was stronger now, as if droplets of water encrusted with it were suspended all around them. It was a fanciful thought, one that Giles had to attribute to the long day of travel and the vaguely magical atmosphere that resulted from being in such a remote location.
"Spot of bad weather coming in, they say," the ferry man said.
Giles glanced at him. The temperature had dropped in the last few minutes, but he'd put that down to being out on the water. A brisk breeze lifted the edge of a yellow tarpaulin covering a coiled rope as thick as Giles' wrist, and it began to flap wildly, the sound lost in the thrum of the engines.
"Rain?" he asked, seeing the heavy clouds roll towards them, as though intent on reaching the island before the ferry.
For the first time, the other man gave him a look that was something other than impassive. "It's Scotland," he said, still mildly enough. "There's always rain. No, wintry storm -- sleet, strong winds. Tide's meant to be higher than usual."
The ferry lurched as though in agreement, now far enough out into the channel of water that swimming to shore would be unpleasant to say the least, and Giles gripped the railing firmly. "I see."
The last snow he'd seen had been in Sunnydale; soft flakes, falling gently and persistently from a dim sky, and gone by the next day; snow called by the Powers to save Angel. The memory of that day left him wondering what this Christmas would bring in the way of weather. From that description, they were in for something less benign.
"This is such a short crossing though; I suppose the ferry won't be affected no matter how bad it gets?"
The ferry man grunted. "Depends. If the waves get high enough, have to stop running. Otherwise you chance ending topside down, which I don't recommend."
They seemed to be nearly equidistant from both shores at that point, although admittedly it was difficult to tell, what with the salt spray and the darkening skies behind them.
Giles turned to peer at the approaching shore, feeling something very like panic rise up at the thought that once he stepped off the ferry, he might not be able to leave at will. His visit had been planned to last until the New Year; it was Hogmanay, not Christmas, that was celebrated the most up here, and he'd been looking forward to that. But he was two days early, arriving unannounced, and he felt as unsure of his welcome as his footing on the slick deck. The first spattering drops of rain reached them, carried on the wind that seemed to be pushing the ferry towards its destination, as though eager for it to arrive.
Turning back to the man beside him, he said, "Is there a taxi on the island? It's a few miles to Traighshee from what I've been told, and it looks as if your storm's arriving."
"Top of the pier," the ferry driver said, gesturing with his head as if this could somehow clarify the location. "Martyr's Bay. They've got a phone you can use to call the McIntyres. Unless you get lucky and John's already there."
The engine noise deepened and got momentarily louder as the boat began to slow, swinging around to line up with the dock. Giles' glasses were spattered with rain and salt water, but cleaning them seemed pointless until he was off the ferry, and his hands were trembling with tiredness. He looked at the shore and tried to see a splash of color amongst the uniform greyness of rocks and scattered houses that would tell him that John was waiting.
"John's car," the ferry man said with a nod, obviously spotting it himself although he was also busy easing the ferry up to the dock. Boat met wooden pier with a gentle bump despite the growing height of the waves, and the engine dulled its grumble as the gangway began to lower again. A young man on the pier, dressed in a yellow oilskin, had appeared as if from nowhere to lash the ferry to the pier.
"Thanks," said Giles, stepping out of the man's way. He went to retrieve his cases and prepared to disembark. The rain was heavier now, and though his own coat was supposedly waterproof, he felt damp and cold. Bracing himself as the weight of the cases dragged at his arms, he turned and nodded in farewell. He could -- just -- have summoned the energy to smile, but the man had been helpful and he deserved better than an empty gesture.
He received a nod in return, then started up to the long wooden pier to the road. As he reached the top, another man, this one wearing an unfastened mac and an attitude so casual that he seemed not to feel the rain at all, came out of the large building headed toward the minicab.
The man looked at him, nodded, and reached for one of the cases, taking it from Giles' hand before he could protest. "Needing a ride?" the man asked, not waiting for an answer as he unlocked the boot of the taxi and set the case inside as if it weighed very little. "John McIntyre," he said, holding his hand out toward Giles.
"Rupert Giles," Giles replied automatically. The hand he grasped was warm and calloused and the handshake friendly and brisk. John looked as if he was in his mid thirties, with eyes that were very blue against his tanned face. "Yes, thanks. I'm staying at Traighshee House and I'd rather not arrive soaked through."
He wondered if John would consider that reluctance strange, given that the man seemed oblivious to the rain, but he knew he was incapable of walking any distance, with or without the burden of his luggage.
"Well get in before you're washed away then," John said, taking the other suitcase from him and putting it in the boot with the first one.
Giles had often found himself opening the wrong car door since his return to England and being greeted by an empty space where he'd expected a steering wheel. Today he didn't even have to pause to think about that, as John slammed the boot shut and disappeared to the right, leaving Giles to go the other way and climb inside a vehicle that smelled strongly of fish.
Forcing himself to speak, Giles fastened his seat belt and said, "I suppose you don't get many visitors this time of the year?"
"Not ones we don't recognize," John said with a wink. He started up the car and glanced backward over his shoulder casually, as if it were a mere formality, before pulling onto the road. The windscreen wipers began a speedy back-and-forth that pushed sheets of clear water off to the side. "First time on Iona?"
"Yes, it is," Giles said. "I spent some holidays in Scotland as a child, but we never left the mainland." He looked out of the window as the last house vanished behind them and the narrow road led them into a landscape bare of trees. The island looked weathered and worn, with rock outcroppings amongst the grass, as though a giant hand had rubbed away at the soil in places. A gust of wind pressed against the car, making it swerve slightly, and Giles folded his hands in his lap, determined not to reach out to steady himself.
Then three sheep ambled across the road and Giles was thrown forward as John braked sharply.
He didn't notice that John had thrown an arm in front of his chest until they'd slid to a stop. The wipers continued their quick rhythm as both men caught their breath and the black sheep -- quite wooly, and sporting short curved horns -- sauntered calmly across the road, seemingly unmindful of the accident they'd nearly been the cause of.
"All right?" John asked, glancing at him.
Giles nodded, forcing himself to smile reassuringly. "Took me by surprise, that's all. I suppose training them to look right, then left, might be a bit ambitious?"
John waited for the sheep to clear the road before he started the minicab moving forward again. "You'd have better luck training the cars not to hit them," he said lightly, but Giles could see that his hands were tense on the wheel. "Hope you're planning to be here through the holidays -- I'm not sure you'll be able to get off the island over the next few days, what with the forecast."
"So I was told." Giles paused. Habit and training both urged him to say as little as possible to John, but it occurred to him that the man must have met Xander many times in the weeks that Xander had been on the island. He frowned, trying to remember the names that had cropped up in his phone conversations with Xander. John... yes, he recalled Xander trying to say the name as the islanders did, with a soft sound that turned the name into 'Chon', and getting it hopelessly wrong and laughing at himself. "I'm staying with Xander, Xander Harris. Are you the John who took him salmon fishing by any chance?"
The man nodded, then adjusted the speed of the windscreen wipers as the rain eased briefly. "I thought you must be a friend of Xander's. Everyone else working on Traighshee House's a local. Well, other than that man that came out to inspect the boiler, but I didn't figure you for that sort of thing, not with Christmas so close." John looked at him sideways. "You've known Xander a long time?"
Answering that without snubbing John with too brief a reply, or giving too much away, required some thought, and Giles wasn't sure he was capable of it right then. The rhythmic swish of the wipers and the stuffy warmth of the car were making him feel sleepy. "About eight years, yes." More seemed required and he added, "I worked at his school in California and we... kept in touch after he graduated. His fiancée was my partner in a shop I owned after I left the school." The silence from John was encouraging, but Giles was incapable of anything more beyond a quiet, "He's a remarkable young man, and the organization I represent thinks highly of him, as do I."
The road turned sharply to the left and headed up a hill. "As far as I know, everyone on the island thinks pretty highly of him as well. He's a hard worker." That last was said as though it would cover a multitude of sins.
When they reached the top of the hill, John slowed the car cautiously. Ahead of them was what Giles took to be Traighshee house -- he'd seen photos, but seeing it in its actual setting, the building was more imposing in size than he'd realized. He'd been picturing it smaller. Also in front of them was the sea, a good acre or so behind the house, with white sand beach looking nearly grey under the darkened skies.
"There you are," John said, as he stopped the minicab and put it into neutral, pulling the parking brake. He glanced through the windscreen and upward. "You just might have enough time to get in there before the storm picks up again."
Giles fumbled for the handle and opened the door, fighting the wind which seemed determined to keep him inside the car. He climbed out, letting the door slam shut behind him, and looked around. There were signs of renovation; a neatly piled stack of lumber and a cement mixer were visible at the side of the house, but he couldn't hear any voices and guessed that the workmen had gone home. The early dusk would make the working days short here.
A second, louder slam had his head turning, and he saw that John had lifted out his cases and was carrying them to the door. Following him quickly, Giles felt in his pocket for his wallet.
"Sorry! I was just woolgathering, I'm afraid." He pulled out his wallet and then hesitated. "How much do I owe you?"
John bent and set both cases on the porch, close to the building where they'd be a bit protected from the rain, which had slowed to a fine mist for the moment at least. "Think I'll leave you to fight that out with Xander," the man said, clapping Giles on the shoulder. "He has an account with us." He looked at Giles appraisingly for a moment, then nodded his head. Giles almost fancied that he could read John's mind. You'll do."Have a good holiday, if I don't see you again."
"Thank you, and the same to you," Giles replied, letting the banality of the exchange distract him from the knowledge that in a moment he'd meet Xander. He sensed that John was conveying more in his words than a conventional farewell, but pushed that thought to one side for now, unable to deal with anything but getting through the next few minutes.
He stood there through a few deep breaths as John went back to the minicab, turned it around, and started back down the hill. As the sound of the car's engine faded, the sound of the sea became more distinct, the rolling crash of the waves against the shore almost soothing.
He raised his hand and knocked at the door and then waited, staring at the unpainted wood, weathered to grey by the salt air. His entire concentration was focused on the door as he waited for it to open, and the sound of quick footsteps approaching from behind the house took a moment to register.
He turned and saw Xander come around the corner.
Dressed in a dark brown mac and wearing the eye patch that never failed to startle Giles, even if only for the briefest of instants, Xander looked at him, did a double take, and stopped dead in his tracks. "Giles! You're... here. I mean, you're early. Unless I did that thing again where I lost track of time, because you know, out here when they say they're going to deliver something on Wednesday, they might mean Wednesday, or they might mean next Wednesday. Or they might mean some random Wednesday a few months from now." Xander closed his mouth as if aware that he was babbling, then opened it again and said, more slowly, "You're here."
He looked puzzled, but a smile was beginning to spread across his face. Giles knew that he could not remove the bewilderment without taking the happiness with it, and for a moment he was tempted to accept the hug Xander was moving to give him, go into the house and agree that a cup of tea would be most welcome -- but he'd reached the end of his endurance. It wasn't right that Xander should hear this when he was smiling, but Giles had to tell him before he came any closer.
"Willow's dead, Xander. I found out last night and I told the others, but I couldn't tell you on the phone, I couldn't -- oh God, Xander, I'm so very sorry."
2.
We are on the brink
We are floundering
Spinning in this dark and rising tide.
Xander was dreaming.
He had to be dreaming, or more accurately having a nightmare, because otherwise what Giles had just said was actually what Giles had just said, and there was no way that could be true.
The rain started up again, harder, and with the way the wind was blowing, around the building and toward the hill, it almost was raining up, instead of down, and a minute ago Xander had been joking about the way Wednesday didn't mean anything, and now Willow was dead.
Only not, because this was just a dream.
Giles waited a long moment without saying anything and then repeated, "I'm sorry," in a tired whisper that was still loud enough to be heard over the rising wind.
For almost another minute they both stood there, kind of looking at each other and kind of not, while the rain fell heavily. Xander tried to remember, just as an exercise in futility, or maybe denial, what he'd been planning on doing for the next half hour, and discovered that he had no idea. It was like the rain had washed everything away.
"We should go in," he said, and walked past Giles to the front door.
The door wasn't locked of course -- nothing ever was up here -- and that was a pity because it meant that in a very short space of time Giles and his luggage were inside, the door was closed and someone had to speak. Giles cleared his throat and said, "Is this -- shall I put these somewhere, or -- "
His voice broke off and he looked helplessly down at the cases as if deciding what to do with them mattered more than admitting he'd made a mistake.
"Just leave them for now," Xander told him, and his own voice sounded rough and strange too. "You want to sit down?"
Giles nodded, but didn't move. "Xander, I shouldn't have just told you like that. Are you -- no, of course you're not all right. God, this is so difficult!"
Xander almost laughed. "Of course you had to tell me like that. What else were you going to do? 'I had a nice trip, I hear this is gonna be quite a storm, oh, and by the way, your best friend's dead?'" Okay, sitting down sounded like a really good idea. He realized he was still wearing his dripping coat and peeled it off, hanging it on the coat rack that never held anything but his own stuff. "Here, take that off," he said, gesturing at Giles' jacket.
Giles took it off, moving slowly and fumbling with the zip, and once his hands were free cleaned his rain-smeared glasses. He put them back on and blinked, looking tired. "Where can we go? I think I would like to sit down, yes." He glanced around. "There's no one else here with you?"
"No, just me. Colm went home about an hour ago." Xander was starting to feel something, finally, and he thought it might be shock. He was cold, and his lips were kind of numb. "Come on back to the kitchen -- it's warmer."
He'd left a light on in there earlier, and he automatically moved to the stove to put the kettle on now, gesturing at a chair wordlessly to tell Giles to sit. Facing the wall, with his back to Giles, he forced himself to ask for information other than the actual details.
"How'd Buffy and Dawn take it?"
He got the impression that Giles was reluctant to answer because there was a long silence. Finally Giles said, "I phoned them last night, as soon as I heard. Dawn was asleep. I spoke to Buffy and she was -- she didn't believe it was final. Kept asking questions, wanting to know what she could do... she couldn't accept that it was over. That there was nothing any of us could do. Then she started to cry, and I just sat there listening to her, and it was unbearable."
Xander felt his stomach twist in sympathy, for Buffy and for Giles both. He wanted to say something to Giles, something comforting that would make him feel better, but he had no idea what that might be. Instead, still with his back to the room, he reached for the container he kept the tea bags in. "I hope you don't mind that it's not real tea," he said. "I mean, the loose kind. Did you know I have to -- " His breath hitched in his chest suddenly, painfully.
"Xander -- " A chair scraped along the floor and he heard Giles walk over to him. "Would you prefer to be by yourself? I can go upstairs for a while." He felt a hand touch his shoulder and then move away. "It's just -- when I heard, I wanted someone to be there with me and there wasn't anyone. I wanted to spare you that, at least."
The last thing Xander wanted was to be alone, and didn't like the thought that Giles had been. He brought a hand up and ran it through his hair, trying to settle himself down enough so that he could turn around and look at Giles without losing it. "You shouldn't have been alone," he said gruffly, finally turning to meet Giles' eyes.
"I'm not now," Giles said quietly. "And I can't tell you how much that helps. Even if I don't deserve to feel better."
"Hey," Xander said, his gut doing that twisting thing again in the face of Giles' obvious misery, and that was okay. It was actually easier to focus on Giles than on what had actually happened. "You weren't even there. This wasn't your fault."
Giles flinched. It wasn't anything obvious, but it was there in the way the skin around his eyes and mouth went tight for just a second. "You don't know what happened. I'm not sure I do, not completely, but I know enough to be sure of one thing." His voice was remote and uninflected. "Willow died because I failed her, Xander. I'd love to be able to blame someone else, but it was my fault. And the only excuse I have is that I've been very busy. Somehow, that's not making the guilt go away."
"Okay, I think you need to tell me what happened," Xander said, still not really wanting to hear it, but seeing how it was eating Giles up inside. He'd worry about his own reaction later.
Giles looked at the kettle and his mouth twisted. "I think I'm going to need something a little stronger than tea to do that. I've got whiskey in one of my suitcases, even though it's coals to Newcastle bringing it here."
"There's some in the cabinet," Xander said, moving over and getting it. "I've been told it's the good stuff, not that I'd know the difference -- one of the guys left it, the first night I was here. I think it was some kind of housewarming present." He offered the bottle to Giles and turned to get some glasses. "'Coals to Newcastle?'"
"What? Oh... coal came from Newcastle; it had mines and it was the biggest exporter of the stuff, so taking it there is the definition of pointless. It's a town on the border -- and perhaps I should keep in mind that you're American and stop babbling." He studied the label on the bottle. "You must have made an excellent first impression; this is a single malt. Was it from John, by any chance?"
"Actually, yeah." Light dawned. "That's how you got out here. Yeah, that makes sense." Since Giles seemed determined to just keep standing there with the bottle of whiskey, Xander held the glasses out at pouring level, not realizing until right then how much he could use a drink too.
Giles raised his eyebrows. "You're going to join me? Well, why not?" He tipped up the bottle over each glass in turn, pouring out generous measures, and then walked to the table and put the bottle down with a careless thud. "You haven't asked how she died. I suppose after all we've gone through, one does tend to dismiss the mundane, and you'd be quite right. It was a spell. One I should have told her was dangerous." He sat down and drank from his glass. "She might even have paid attention to me this time. Isn't that ironic?"
Going over and sitting down across from Giles at the small table, Xander took a decent sip of the whiskey and barely managed not to choke. He was more a beer kind of guy. "I don't get it -- a spell? How could a spell kill her?"
"In this case, mercifully quickly. I don't think she would have felt any pain... though there must have been a moment when she felt her control slip, when she knew -- " Giles tossed back the rest of his drink and refilled his glass. "In general, you know damn well how." His voice was angry now. "It's magic, Xander. It's not all sparkly lights and fairy dust. It's power, taken and used, and it's dangerous. You know that."
Starting to feel pissed off -- because who the hell was Giles to talk to him like that? -- Xander put his own glass down. "Yeah, and I also know how powerful she is. Was." He hated that he'd made the slip, and that just fueled his fire. "She almost destroyed the world. And you're telling me that one little spell had the power to take her out?"
"But it wasn't 'one little spell', Xander! Far from it. It was the enjoining spell we used -- all four of us -- to defeat Adam. If you've forgotten how that one ended, I can assure you I haven't." Giles looked down at the table and rubbed at a smear with his thumb before glancing up. "I'm sorry. It's hard for me not to feel angry, but I shouldn't be taking it out on you. Only myself."
"Okay, hang on. Back up a minute here. What you mean it was the spell we did to stop Adam? That was..." Xander had to pause and count back in his head, "almost four years ago!"
"Yes. And it resulted in a Slayer with unimaginable power. Can you not see how that idea would be attractive to Willow? She's -- she was in love with someone who is still, like every other Slayer, unlikely to live for long if she's doing her job correctly. Willow had lost one lover. She was desperately worried about it happening again." Giles picked up his glass, studied it, and placed it back on the table, centering it precisely and then pushing it away. "So she changed the spell. Tweaked and twiddled at it and poured her power into it." Giles rubbed his forehead. "I think if the spell had worked, it would have killed Kennedy. Luckily -- no, that's really not the word I need, is it? -- Willow's death cut off the transfer of power before that happened."
As what Giles had said started to sink in, Xander felt anger flare up again. He slapped his hand down flat on the table, hard. "God, how could she be so stupid?" He pushed his chair back and paced to the other side of the kitchen just as the kettle startled to whistle, then stalked over there and jerked it off the burner. "She should have known better."
"I should have known better," Giles said quietly. "As head of the Council, I should have forbidden it. I didn't. I accepted her assurances that it was safe, trusted her when she told me she'd researched it thoroughly -- delegated research she asked me to do instead of doing it myself, in fact. I should never have allowed it in the first place, but I was so pleased to see her confidence restored that I gave her too much freedom. Don't waste your anger on her, Xander. Not when I'm sitting right here."
Xander responded to that quickly and firmly. "Bullshit. You think forbidding it would have done any good?"
Giles finished his drink and refilled his glass at once. "We'll never know, will we? Because I didn't even fucking try." He looked up. "Sorry. Not supposed to swear in front of you lot, am I? Supposed to be a good influence. I don't seem to be any better at that than I am at keeping you alive."
Leaning back against the countertop, Xander rubbed his hand over his face. "Jesus, Giles. Willow's dead -- I think you can swear if you want to." He wasn't unaware of the amount Giles was drinking, but he could get why the other man would want to do that too. Swearing seemed like a lesser evil.
"Oh, I want to all right. I want to swear, I want to hit things, I want to wake up and not have Willow gone." Giles stood up and gripped the edge of the table. "I'll settle for being able to forget it's all down to me that she's dead for longer than thirty seconds, but I'd have to drink more than this to get that blissfully out of it, and then I'd be imposing on you even more than I am now." He moved towards the door. "I can't imagine having me here is helping. Where -- which room were you going to put me in?"
Xander followed him wearily out to the foyer. "Come on -- I'll show you what you need to know. We can skip the full tour until tomorrow." He brushed past Giles to pick up the suitcases -- they were heavy, but not anything he couldn't handle pretty easily -- and that was when it happened, the thing he'd known was coming.
'Willow's dead' stopped being words and started being real.
He straightened up, one arm wrapping around his own waist like that could keep the hurt in, like it could keep him from falling apart. "This can't... there must be something we can do," Xander said, desperate.
"There isn't." Giles' voice had lost its bitter, angry edge now. "The spell might have been the conduit for the power, but the damage that it did to her body was very real. No loopholes, no second chances. And, God forgive me, but if there were a way, I'm not sure I'd take it, and you know why."
Xander wasn't sure right then if he cared about the reasons not to do it -- he didn't want to be reasonable and practical and all those words that ended with an 'L' sound, he just wanted Willow to be okay. "You don't know that for sure," he argued, his voice rising. "You haven't seen her. Maybe we could -- "
The hand that came out and grabbed his arm hurt. Giles' eyes were glittering now, the way they did when he'd forgotten he was supposed to be reassuring and grown up, with all the answers right there. "No, I didn't see her -- but Kennedy's description left me profoundly grateful for that. The magic ripped through her, Xander. Literally. She's dead, I killed her, so just stop going on about ways to bring her back. Just stop."
Fighting the instincts that told him to pull away from Giles' hand, and refusing to let his mind show him the pictures of Willow's body that it tried to conjure up, Xander stayed still. Gently, he said, "You didn't kill her, the spell did." That, at least, he firmly believed.
"I wish I could accept that, Xander." Giles was still holding onto his arm, but his grip had relaxed so that his fingers were clinging, not digging in. "Wish I could feel no responsibility, and that you all weren't going to end up hating me once the shock wears off." His face twisted. "I spoke to Buffy a second time, very early this morning. Asked her not to call you until I'd had a chance to get here. She was... inclined to agree with me, not you, I'm afraid."
"She's upset," Xander said, thinking that if Buffy had been able to see the look on Giles' face, she would have been at least a little bit understanding. "You've got to cut her some slack under circumstances like this." He put his other hand over Giles', just resting it there, hoping it would be comforting.
The hand underneath his turned and clasped his fingers gratefully, as if the small gesture had done more to convince Giles he didn't blame him than anything he'd said.
"Hey," Xander said gently, and pulled Giles into an awkward one-armed hug. "Will it help if I promise not to hate you?"
Giles nodded, his head close enough that the small movement made his hair brush against Xander's face, and tugged his hand free so he could return the hug.
"Should have done this when I saw you," Giles said, his voice rough. "Not retreated into self-pity and a bottle. Sorry."
"It's not your fault," Xander said. He wasn't stupid enough to think that would be enough to convince Giles -- well, maybe if he said it a hundred times, but that could take days -- but it seemed like the thing to say. He closed his eyes and pulled Giles closer. "I don't want to believe she's really gone," he whispered.
Giles' arms tightened around him at that last word. "I wish you didn't have to."
He was tempted to stay like that -- just holding onto Giles -- but after another few seconds he let go and stepped back. "Let me show you upstairs," he said. "Then maybe we should get some food into you. Otherwise you're going to feel like hell in the morning."
"Feel like that now, but it probably would be a good idea to eat. I don't think I have, actually." Giles frowned as if he was having trouble remembering. "There was food on the plane, but that was hours ago, and two slices of bread that managed to be both stale and limp aren't going to soak up the rest of the bottle." He rubbed his hand across his face. "I want to talk about her, Xander. To you. Remember her, mourn her..." He turned away abruptly and picked up one of the suitcases before moving towards the staircase. Following behind him with the other suitcase, Xander waited until the hallway at the top of stairs widened to pass the other man, leading them to the right where most of the bedrooms were and then turned into the room he'd figured Giles could stay in.
"I was going to turn down the bed and air the sheets out. Not that I'd think of that on my own, but Mrs. Stewart said she'd tan my hide if I didn't remember." The little Scottish woman would have been scary if she hadn't been such a good cook, and the fact that she did the laundry was a godsend.
Giles followed him, dropping the case and then wincing at an ominous crash from inside it. "Lord, I hope that wasn't the one with the whiskey in it. Don't worry about the bed; I'm so tired I wouldn't notice if it was wringing wet. She sounds as if she's got you well-trained though; did she recover from the time you scaled a fish in the kitchen, and she was finding the scales for days after? I half expected you to be looking for another housekeeper after that. Or have you charmed her as much as you have the other islanders?"
"I had to agree to let her teach me how to make toast," Xander admitted. "After that she stopped complaining about the scales. Mostly." He glanced around the room, then went over and turned on a lamp that was on the dresser. "You want to get changed into some dry clothes while I go down and see if I can rustle us up some dinner?"
"Is that a polite way of telling me that I've arrived before you had a chance to shop and I'll be lucky if I get beans on toast?" Giles said, kneeling down to unfasten a case. He turned his head and smiled up at Xander, clearly making an effort to sustain the lighter mood, no matter how little they both felt like joking. "Seriously; anything will do. Don't go to any trouble."
"Don't worry -- despite what my Sunnydale pizza box collection might have indicated, I can actually cook. Not to mention make toast in the oven."
Heading back down, Xander had just reached the foyer when there was a knock at the side door leading into the kitchen. He quickly went and opened it, revealing a rain-soaked John, who looked, as usual, totally happy no matter what the weather.
"Jeez, come in," Xander said, backing up to make room.
John hesitated, looking past Xander. "No; you've got company. I don't want to intrude. Just thought you might be glad of a few supplies." He lifted up a bag he held. "If this storm gets worse, you'll lose your power. Wasn't sure if you had any candles. And... well, your friend's turned up a bit earlier than you expected, hasn't he, so there's a wee bittie salmon in there. He's English; he'll like that."
Xander backed up another step and gestured with his hand. "No, come in. You want some tea? It's getting cold."
The innate good manners of most of the islanders, a formality it had taken Xander a while to get used to, made John hesitate a moment longer, but as Xander turned away to get mugs, he stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
"Tea, aye, if it's no bother." John's eyes flicked to the whiskey bottle on the table, but he didn't comment.
The water in the kettle was still hot enough for tea, so Xander poured it and handed a mug to John as the other man set the bag on the table. He left the other mug to steep for Giles -- he really wasn't in the mood. "Thanks for the candles. I hadn't even thought about that. The power going out, I mean."
"You're lucky it's not happened before this." John sipped at his tea and glanced over at Xander. "And your friend's lucky he took a notion to come a few days early. The ferry isn't likely to be running if this keeps up."
Any semblance of a good mood Xander had been managing vanished. "Yeah, well, turns out there was some bad news from back home." It was still 'back home,' even if Sunnydale was gone and they'd all moved on to different places.
John pushed back his chair and stood, walking over to Xander and resting a hand on his shoulder. "You'll not be wanting company then and I'll be on my way. Unless there's anything I can do?" There was sympathy and concern in his voice, but any curiosity was well hidden.
"Well, you could drink the perfectly good tea I made you," Xander said, trying to sound like his normal self and totally failing. He couldn't help but feel like John deserved to know, especially with the way things had almost gone between them.
But he knew if he wanted to say it, he needed to get it out fast. "Willow died."
"Willow? The wee lassie you grew up with? Och, Xander, that's just terrible!" There was no reserve in his shocked voice, no attempt to disguise his horror. The hand on Xander's shoulder moved up to cup his face gently. "You'll be missing her, I know. Will you be telling me what happened?"
"It's kind of a long story," Xander said, his voice cracking. It was too hard to keep the pain at a distance when John was so warm and understanding. "Basically, there was an accident."
"A car crash, was it? No, never mind. That'll keep." John didn't even hesitate, but pulled Xander to him, stroking his hair as Xander's head dropped to rest against his shoulder. "There's no shame in grieving, lad. I'm thinking she was worth your tears."
Xander hugged John tightly, grateful for the comfort from someone he didn't have to worry about comforting back. He felt real tears threatening for the first time, his eye socket behind the patch prickling in sympathy, but he didn't want to cry.
Until he cried, he could still pretend it wasn't true.
3.
The lights are out and everybody's home
It's you and me and we are both alone.
Giles walked down the stairs, feeling a little better now that he was in dry clothes. He'd taken the opportunity to wash, eyeing the trickle of pale brown, peaty water that came out of the tap without surprise, remembering it from his other holidays in Scotland. It was soft water and its coolness felt good against his eyes, burning with tiredness. He'd thought he'd heard Xander's voice over the running water and wondered if Xander had called Buffy while he was upstairs, but the house was quiet now, the thick stone walls keeping the sounds of wind and rain at bay.
He was too tired to think about anything much; his mind kept slipping away from Willow and then returning, the rediscovery of his loss as fresh and raw as it had been the night before. Xander's efforts to reassure him had been more than he'd expected; far more than he deserved, but they'd left him feeling worse. Xander was -- had been -- closest to Willow; he should be the one getting the comfort, not giving it out.
Giles shook his head impatiently, trying to clear it as he reached the corridor leading to the kitchen. What was done was done. He couldn't change the mistakes he felt he'd been making ever since he arrived, but he could at least make an effort for what remained of the night. For a start, he could stop burdening Xander with his remorse and relax enough to give him a hug without making them both feel awkward about it. That brief moment when Xander's arm had lain across his back had come close to breaking down his resolve not to give way to tears, but Christ, why not? Willow was -- and the wave of sorrow broke over him again.
He took a steadying breath and pushed open the door, walking through quickly. Xander was in the middle of the room, his arms around a man who was murmuring to him in a low voice, holding him close.
John. Giles closed his eyes and, in the brief darkness before he forced them open again, fitted images to the handful of times Xander had mentioned the man.
There's this local called John who's been really helpful... bit older than me... taking me fishing... only visitor he knows who doesn't get bitten by the midges; says I've got islander blood... John came over last night... you'll like him, Giles.
Giles let the door swing closed behind him and waited for the urge to pull John off Xander to subside before speaking. "Hello again, Mr McIntyre. Did I leave something in your cab?"
Xander stepped back immediately, giving John a glance that was difficult to read before looking at Giles with an expression that might have been equal parts guilt and embarrassment.
The other man turned slightly and gestured at a bag on the tabletop. "I knew Xander might not have been prepared for the storm, so I brought by some candles."
"And a fish," Xander added. "For dinner, which is a good thing, because otherwise it would have been canned -- um, tinned -- meat for us."
Giles nodded, trying to keep his face neutral and aware that he wasn't behaving at all well.
"Very kind of you, especially on a day like this," he said. "Can we offer you a drink before you go? Or were you planning to join us?" He looked directly at Xander. "I wouldn't want my early arrival to upset any plans you've made. You must tell me if I'm in the way."
John broke in before Xander could say anything. "No, not at all -- I'm the one who came unannounced. Just didn't care for the thought of you being out here with no power and no candlelight." The man looked at Xander meaningfully and reached out to touch his shoulder. "If you need anything, call me? As long as the phone lines hold, that is."
Nodding, Xander brought his own hand up to cover John's briefly, a gesture that seemed somehow even more intimate than the earlier embrace had. "I will. Thanks."
Feeling excluded wasn't doing anything to improve Giles' mood, but he had enough sense to do no more than nod in farewell as John left through the kitchen door, turning up his collar as he did so, in mute testimony to the worsening of the conditions outside. Giles avoided Xander's stare and walked over to pour himself some whiskey, before remembering who'd brought it to the house. His gaze fell on John's abandoned cup of tea and he sighed.
"I'm sorry. That was unforgivably rude of me."
"Yeah, it was," Xander said rather flatly, but then he smiled in a strained sort of way. "Well, not totally unforgivable, since I guess an apology gets you off the hook." He came over to the table and opened the bag, taking out a flat, paper wrapped package that had to be the fish. He unwrapped the paper and they both looked down at the fresh salmon. "Which is more than I can say for this poor guy. Or girl. I guess it's hard to tell."
"If there's a real chance we might lose the power, perhaps we should cook it now. Unless you've developed a taste for sushi?" As well as other things, he added silently, wondering what was hurting the most; Xander's reticence over the last weeks, or his unwillingness to share now. Rebuking himself for assuming that he had a right to Xander's confidences, Giles tried to smile. "Looks like a fair size. How big was that one you told me you'd caught from the boat?"
Xander picked up the fish and paper and carried it over to the range. "Not much bigger than this one," he said, bending over and looking in a low cupboard. When he stood up again he was holding a pan, which he then set down on the countertop next to the fish. His shoulders slumped suddenly. "Giles... I don't think I can do this."
The last flicker of ill temper died away in the face of Xander's distress. "Then don't," Giles said gently. "Don't cook a meal neither of us wants to eat, don't put up with my inconsiderate behavior -- " He took two steps forward and reached out, turning Xander to face him. "And I'd like to say, don't turn to someone else for comfort when I'm right here, but I think that would qualify as more selfishness on my part. Do you want to go to him? I promise I'll be fine."
He could feel the hitch in Xander's breathing, then the younger man shook his head slightly. "No. I don't... it's not like that. I mean, it could have been, but it's not."
Eight years of practice let Giles fill in the blanks and work out that John and Xander had come close to -- something -- but no more than that. Which raised more questions than it answered, but he wasn't going to ask a single one. Not yet.
"Why not?"
Apart from that one.
Xander took another shaky breath and shrugged slightly. "I wasn't ready?" It was as much a question as an answer.
Giles opened his mouth and closed it again, eyeing Xander a little quizzically. "This is either going to be a long conversation or a very short one," he said finally, still standing very close to Xander, though he wasn't touching him at all, "and if this isn't the time -- which I can quite see it might not be -- I'll be happy to postpone it indefinitely, but tell me, is it just John you're not ready to be with? Or anyone?"
There was another long pause. "I don't know," Xander said. "If I say it's just John, then that makes it sound like there's something wrong with him, and there isn't. Or like maybe tomorrow I'll change my mind and decide I am ready, and that's not going to happen. I care about him -- a lot -- but not like that."
The breath Giles took after that was careful and deliberate, more to calm himself than anything else. Xander was leaning against the countertop behind him, unable to step back, with Giles making it impossible for him to step forward. Slowly, not taking his eyes away from Xander's face, Giles placed his hands on the counter, on either side of Xander, and said quietly, "That only answers the first part of my question. Is there anyone you are ready to be with?"
Xander swallowed. "I don't know," he said again, although barely above a whisper this time. "I think 'ready' implies, you know, actually being ready, whereas I'm more in the state of readiness commonly thought of as sheer terror."
Giles let everything go -- the constant feeling of loss over Willow's death, wrapped around with guilt, the physical tiredness that dragged at him, the buzz from the whisky that was freeing him in some ways, hampering him in others, because he wasn't sure he could trust his judgment at the moment -- let it all go, and focused on Xander. 'Tense' was probably a better description than 'terrified', but Giles felt remorse that he'd pushed Xander even that far.
"I think I've moved from making you angry to making you uncomfortable," he said, matching his voice to Xander's. They were so close now that a whisper was all that was needed. "I'll stop there before I say -- or do -- something an apology won't make better."
The counter was about the only thing holding him up at this point, but he let go of it and straightened, putting a little more space between himself and Xander.
He could see the confusion on Xander's face, as well as what he liked to think might have been regret. "So... what do we do -- " The sharp, shrill ring of the phone made the both of them jump slightly, the sound unexpected and loud in the otherwise quiet kitchen.
With an apologetic glance, Xander moved around Giles toward the rather old-fashioned telephone on the countertop near the hallway and picked it up. "Hello?"
Giles watched as the other man listened for a moment, then said, "Buffy, hi. Hang on a second, okay?" He covered the mouthpiece with his hand and said, "It's Buffy."
Giles refused to let any of the frustration he was feeling show on his face. Xander needed to talk about Willow to someone whose grief was uncomplicated by guilt and that was more important than anything else right now.
"I'll just -- " Giles didn't want to listen to this conversation, didn't want to talk to Buffy again when she was likely still angry with him. "I'll have a look around. Finish unpacking. Give Buffy my love."
He left the room after giving Xander one quick smile.
The house was quiet. Giles wandered around the ground floor. Some rooms were in good condition -- clearly evidence of Xander's hard work, as he'd seen photos of the interior that had been taken before reconstruction had begun -- whereas others were still in various states of repair. The wind and rain blew fiercely against the windows, occasionally causing them to rattle, but for the most part he didn't feel much in the way of drafts.
It was larger than he'd expected, but then he supposed it had to be. The Council had been using it for years as a place to send retired Watchers and once here, in the peaceful surroundings, they seemed to perk up and live until they were ninety. As many as seven had been here when storm damage to the roof forced their relocation to Hampshire, near the Watcher's Academy, and rather than be repaired, Traighshee had been left to get steadily more rundown. Giles suspected that Travers had preferred to have them closer to hand than this remote island. Elderly they might be, but they were still valuable sources of information.
Now the house was intended as a place to train Slayers. Not all of them, by any means, but those who had shown signs of being... different. As a place to develop more than the physical side of their capabilities, this island, steeped in mysticism, was perfect. The utter lack of distractions, the peace -- Giles allowed himself to picture Faith here and smiled wryly.
The darkness of a northern winter's night had fallen now, and Giles turned away from a blank window and went back upstairs. He hesitated outside the door to his room, but decided to leave any unpacking until tomorrow. He'd already salvaged his toothbrush from the jumble of oddments thrown in at the last moment and that would do for tonight. Most of the rooms up here were empty and some showed signs of water damage, though the roof had been the first job Xander had tackled when he arrived so none of it was recent.
Giles pushed open the door to Xander's room and stood on the threshold. It was opposite his, and as he flicked on the light he saw that Xander had chosen one of the largest rooms and made it into a bed-sit of sorts. Clothes were scattered about, and the bed was unmade, but it was far from being messy. On a large table underneath the window he could see a stack of blueprints and notes, orderly and organized. Giles hesitated, unwilling to enter when Xander wasn't there, but his gaze fell on a cork board on the wall. It was covered with photographs, secured by push pins and so numerous that they overlapped.
Photographs of all of them. Giles walked towards the board and stared at Willow, long red hair caught back in an Alice band, shy, sweet smile and large dark eyes... he lifted up his hand and touched the photograph with gentle fingers, feeling tears sting his eyes. Blinking them away, he glanced at the other faces smiling down at him. Most of the photographs were his; Buffy and Willow had taken so many over the years and pressed duplicates onto him, ignoring his protests that he had no room to store them, no time to organize them... he'd taken them back to England when he left, and found the box when he got his belongings out of storage. He remembered Willow's face as he took her aside and silently passed her a handful of pictures with Tara in them, and the hug that had left him breathless.
Not all of the photographs were familiar though. Giles saw one of Xander holding up a fish, with John beside him, smiling faintly, and stepped back, sitting down on the bed because the armchair was covered in clothes.
Buffy's phone call had probably been a blessing, he thought. He wasn't sure how the conversation with Xander would have resolved itself if they hadn't been interrupted, but it wasn't how he'd imagined it going. He'd never even thought about the possibility of Xander with someone else for one thing.
In the weeks that Xander had been gone, Giles had found himself looking forward to his calls, the brief chats getting longer, Xander's jokes raising his spirits, his problems so far removed from the ones Giles was facing that they were a welcome distraction... then Xander had told him that he couldn't leave the house empty over Christmas and invited Giles to stay. The uncomplicated rush of pleasure he'd felt at the idea of spending time with Xander had been illuminating, but once it had receded he'd been left uncertain and only too ready to convince himself that he was reading more into it than Xander intended.
He'd thought about not going; easy enough to come up with a reason, fake an emergency... but he'd learned to grab at happiness when it came and, pushing doubts aside, he'd booked tickets and made plans, telling himself to take things easy, not risk a friendship for the sake of something that when he thought about it seemed so unlikely.
A sound in the corridor made him look around, and Xander walked in. Giles stood abruptly, feeling as if he'd been caught doing something wrong.
"Hey," Xander said, pausing just inside the room. His face looked flushed, but more as if he'd been holding back tears than indulging in them.
"I'm sorry; I didn't mean to intrude, I just -- " Giles looked at the photographs. "She looks so young in those." His voice shook slightly and he took a deep breath, trying to steady it. "How were Buffy and Dawn?"
Xander shrugged a bit, sticking his hands into his trouser pockets. "You know. Not great, but... life goes on, right? Isn't that one of those things you're supposed to keep telling yourself?" He came over and stood next to Giles, both of them looking at the cork board covered with photographs. "Buffy says sorry."
"She does?" Giles waited a moment to see if that lifted any of the weight from his shoulders, and couldn't decide, as Buffy could be feeling regret for speaking her mind while still feeling that he was largely responsible for Willow's death. "She really didn't say anything she needed to apologize for. Well, apart from the suggestion that I step down and let Andrew have my job. I have to say that rankled a little."
"I'm pretty sure she was just venting," Xander said, not picking up on the opportunity to tease Andrew, even in his absence, the way he usually would have. After a moment, still looking at the photos, he put his hand on Giles' shoulder and squeezed, his grip strong and warm.
It means nothing, Giles told himself, as his body reacted at once, his breath quickening and a tingle of heat spreading out from where Xander was touching him. It wasn't what he believed though. After the conversation in the kitchen, every action, every word, seemed to have taken on a greater significance. He could have returned a gesture that was still capable of being interpreted as friendly with one equally so, but the need to know, to have his questions answered, was too strong.
Without letting himself think about what he was risking, Giles turned to Xander, slipped one hand behind his neck to hold him still, and kissed him on lips that parted in surprise beneath his.
4.
And in the dark I know that I can't see
Cause here you are and still don't see me.
For just a second -- even though it felt like a really long second -- Xander froze, way more surprised than he should have been that Giles was kissing him. But it only took that second for him to figure out that Giles was quite possibly the best kisser ever, and then one more to start to return the kiss tentatively, his hand that had been holding onto Giles' shoulder sliding down to grip onto his upper arm.
Giles' hand was moving slowly on the back of Xander's neck, possessive and reassuring, until it tightened and then slid away, moving down Xander's back until it reached his ass. That wasn't reassuring; that was wet finger in a socket shocking, and if his hips couldn't decide which way they wanted to move, so that he ended up wriggling against that warm, wide hand, no one could blame him, right?
He groaned softly into the kiss and then broke it off with a gasp, trembling just a little bit, too many emotions too close to the surface for him to let it continue. With his forehead leaning against Giles', Xander took a deep breath then said, "Okay. Um... wow. That was... kind of unexpected."
"Yes, it was." Giles moved his hand up until it was in the small of Xander's back and sighed. "Is that the same as unwelcome?"
"What?" Xander was more startled about that than he'd been about the actual kiss. "What gave you that idea? Oh right, it must have been the way I yelled and pushed you away." He pulled back a few inches so that he could give Giles a stern look. "No. Definitely not unwelcome."
"And not more than you're ready for?" Giles asked, placing the faintest emphasis on 'ready'. His other hand came up to cup Xander's face and his thumb brushed lightly over the mouth he'd just kissed.
That just made Xander want to kiss Giles again, but instead he rubbed his hand up and down Giles' arm in what he hoped was a comforting way. "I'm not sure either of us is ready for this right now. Don't get me wrong, I'm..." He had to search for the right words. "I'm really glad you're here. And I think maybe it might not be a bad idea to kind of, you know... wait. Just for things to be a little less..."
Wow. It was hitting Xander all over again exactly how bad at this kind of thing he really was.
Giles nodded and stepped back. "I agree with every word, but I still want to do that again." He smiled a little ruefully. "Perhaps you should feed me and sober me up, then I'll have an early night." The smile slipped a little. "Putting this day behind me might be the wisest thing I can do."
Xander felt his own heart do that desperate clenching stutter it did every single time he remembered again that Willow was dead, the one that explained the low nagging feeling that something was wrong even in the moments he wasn't remembering.
Then he thought about the fact that Giles had a whole day's head start on feeling that way, and instinctively moved forward and pulled the other man into a tight hug. "It's gonna be okay."
Giles hugged him back, but something had changed, and the awkwardness returned for a moment before Giles relaxed, turned his head enough to kiss Xander briefly on the cheek, and then let his grip loosen. "I can't think that far enough ahead just now, but I'm sure you're right about that too. I just -- I feel as if we're surrounded by ghosts. How many people have we lost in the last few years? Now this. It makes me feel... overwhelmed."
"Yeah," Xander sighed, letting Giles go and running a hand through his hair. "I'm with you there. So. Food?"
"Food," Giles agreed, walking towards the door. "So what were you planning to serve with the fish? No, wait, don't tell me. Toast?"
Xander snorted. "That would require bread, and sadly, I ate the last of that this morning. Mrs. Stewart will be by early tomorrow with the shopping though, so we'll be okay for breakfast."
This was easier to concentrate on, the normal everyday stuff. He'd just think about that for a while, and deal with everything else later.
In the kitchen, he started some rice and then cleaned the fish expertly -- he'd learned his lesson there -- and got it into the oven while they made small talk about Giles' trip. Then all there was left to do was wait for the food to be done.
"I don't think I've ever seen you cook," Giles observed. "Eat, yes, and the memory of you and the chocolate glazed donut Buffy bet you couldn't eat in one mouthful will stay with me for many years to come, but cooking -- that's new." He tilted his head and said quietly, dropping the lighthearted tone, "This place has changed you, Xander. In so many ways."
"You have no idea," Xander said, thinking about the fact that he'd had to go to Tobermory three weeks ago to buy new pants -- slacks, he corrected himself -- because he'd gone down two sizes and belts just weren't cutting it anymore. He didn't think he'd lost all that much weight, just that what he carried had kind of redistributed itself. He sat down at the table and looked at his hands, calloused and more than a little bit scarred in places. "Can I ask you something?"
Giles looked a little startled, but he didn't hesitate. "Anything. Really."
"When was the first time you, you know..." God, this was hard. "With another guy?"
"Ah." Giles fell silent for a moment and then looked up at Xander with a faint smile. "Would you believe me if I told you that what's making me pause isn't an unwillingness to answer so much as acute embarrassment at telling you his name? Or is that enough for you to guess who he was?"
Xander couldn't say that he was all that surprised, once he'd thought about it for a few seconds. "Ethan? But... I mean, it didn't seem like you... liked him very much."
"I didn't -- how could I? He was endangering my Slayer, for one thing." A flicker of anger Xander hoped was never directed at him went over Giles' face and then faded. "And when I was younger than you; nineteen or so, I still didn't like him sometimes, but I couldn't keep my hands off him. I was rebelling, remember, fighting a destiny that irritated me every bit as much as Buffy's did her. Ethan was only too happy to help me." Giles looked wistful for a moment. "We had fun. Right at the start, we had fun." He lifted an eyebrow. "Why do I think you're dying to ask me what happened the night before I woke up turned into a demon?"
Strangely, Xander hadn't been thinking about that at all, but as soon as Giles mentioned it, he got curious fast. "Did you? I mean -- wait a minute! That wasn't some kind of a kinky sex spell, was it?" Oh God, did he really want to know?
Then he pictured the two of them together -- Giles and Ethan, who okay had been kind of hot in a naughty-older-guy kind of way -- and shifted a little bit in his chair.
Yeah, he wanted to know.
Giles placed his hands on the table, his fingers locked together. "No. Fairly straightforward potion in my beer, triggered by an incantation after I'd passed out. I worked that out afterwards, just out of curiosity." He rolled his eyes. "I cannot believe I was stupid enough to drink with him. He played me. Saw how useless -- how old -- I was feeling, and used it to get me remembering the good old days." Giles glanced over at Xander. "Which, besides raising demons and killing friends, included sex with Ethan at every available opportunity. So I'd like to be able to tell you that, remembering all his misdeeds, when we left the bar, I went home alone, but I can't."
"So you didn't like him, but you still wanted to have sex with him." Xander tried to work that out in his head.
"Lust doesn't have to go hand in hand with love -- or liking. Nice when it does, but they're very different things. And it was like fucking a shadow. Part of it was the fact that we were both drunk. I don't know if you've ever... maybe not. There's this point you reach where you could go on for hours, but it's just because you're not really feeling anything anymore. Everything's distant... far away." Xander got an apologetic look. "Am I shattering every illusion? The main problem was that it wasn't Ethan as I remembered him. Not because he was older; that didn't matter. No. I'd always had this idea that beneath it all, he was still reachable -- now that was really stupid of me."
It wasn't like Xander hadn't had sex with people he wasn't in love -- or even in like -- with, so he got that. It was more the thought that Giles would do something like that. He'd always thought, well, that Giles had better sense. "That's what happened with John," he offered, looking at his hands again. "The drunk part, I mean."
Giles seemed to tense up at that, as if it was one thing to discuss ancient history -- and four years felt like that after all they'd been through -- and another to talk about something that had happened just a few weeks ago. He sounded cautious when he answered, as if the way he'd behaved earlier made him wary of stepping over a line only he could see. "But not the -- the rest of it?"
"You mean did he turn me into a Fyarl demon? There I'd have to say no." Xander grinned sheepishly as he remembered that night. "No, we didn't... I mean, I've never. With a guy."
He got up abruptly and went over to check the rice even though it didn't really need checking. "We got drunk, we kissed. Um, kind of a lot. And there may have been some groping involved." There had definitely been groping involved, and more of it had been him groping John than the other way around.
Giles sounded as if he was trying to keep his voice under control, but he wasn't doing a very good job of it. He sounded hurt, maybe even a little bit angry. "I can see the attraction -- for both of you. What I can't see is why you've never -- or was he the first -- God, I'm sorry. I'm usually capable of forming complete sentences. I think you just gave me rather too much to think about there." He rubbed his hand across his mouth. "You didn't mention it. All the times we talked and you never said anything." It was almost a question, but not quite.
"What was I supposed to say?" Xander asked, reaching up and adjusting his eye patch nervously. "I was kind of freaked out at first. Okay, very freaked out. I needed some time to think about it. And then once I had -- once the freakage faded -- it didn't seem like there was anything to talk about. It happened, and it wasn't going to happen again." He cleared his throat. "Not with John."
Giles stood up, which wasn't usually enough to make the air leave the room, and walked around the table then paused and leaned back against it. His arms were folded and he looked as if he was about to deliver a lecture, but Xander didn't remember any that were about him groping men and failing to report back. "I think we've talked about John for long enough. At the risk of making myself look like a fool, do you think it's likely to happen with me? When we're not so -- when the timing is a little better? Or am I reading too much into what happened upstairs? Was it just another trial run?"
"I'm not drunk," Xander pointed out. "And at the risk of mentioning his name again, what happened with John wasn't a 'trial run.' I wasn't just... experimenting on him. I wouldn't do that to someone I cared about. I wouldn't do it to anyone." He knew he sounded angry. "Anyway, what about you?"
"Why did I kiss you, you mean? Because I wanted to. Because I've been thinking about kissing you for weeks now, and no, I didn't tell you about that, did I, so I suppose we're even." Giles unfolded his arms, but didn't move away from the table. "I didn't mean to insult you. I just -- why John? If you're saying you have... feelings for me, not that you have yet, then why did you -- oh God." Giles' lips twitched in something that might have been a smile. "I think I've regressed to a teenager again. Randy, jealous and overly emotional. Yes. All present and correct."
Xander sighed and turned off both the burner under the rice and the oven, figuring the food could sit for a few minutes without anything terrible happening to it. "Why John? Because he was... I trusted him. I already knew he was gay, so it wasn't like he was going to beat me up for touching him, and... wait a minute. You've been thinking about kissing me for weeks?"
"Amongst other things, but I wouldn't want to umm, freak you out, by going into details," Giles said. "Not when you're giving me such an excellent deer in headlights imitation already." He shoved his hands into his pockets and said quietly, "It's not something I expected to happen, Xander."
"Me either," Xander said. "But -- "
Before he could finish his sentence, the power flickered and went out, leaving them in the dark.
"Well, I can reach the candles, but do you remember where you put the matches?" Giles asked, sounding resigned. The kitchen was dark in a way that made coal cellars at midnight seem bright.
"There were some in the bag with the candles." He made his way gingerly in the direction of the table, sure he was going to slam into it. "Hey, at least the food's done cooking."
He collided with Giles after two steps and felt Giles' hands come up automatically to grab him and steady him. The darkness made everything more somehow, so that Giles only had to shift his grip a little for it to feel like a caress, only had to murmur, "Xander?" questioningly for it to sound like an invitation to show him just what that hour in the dunes, with the marram grass coarse and springy and sharp against his bare back, had taught him.
"Sorry," he said gruffly. He had to force himself to move away from Giles' touch, because this was still too soon. Not to mention Giles was drunk, and if they did something now and in the morning Giles regretted it, Xander wasn't sure he'd be able to handle that. "At least we know this is the storm and not some nefarious plot by vampires to take us out," he offered, wondering if he sounded as flat as he felt.
The hands had dropped away as soon as Xander shifted back so obviously Giles felt the same way. Too soon.
"Yes, I don't think there's ever been any recorded demonic activity on the island. It's why this was thought such a good place for the retirement home." Giles sounded discouraged and tired.
There was a rustle of plastic and then Giles reached out and pushed something into Xander's hand. "Here. You hold the candle in place and I'll try not to open the matchbox upside down."
"As if that would be the worst thing this floor's ever seen."
Still, Xander did as Giles had asked, and within a minute or so they had a few candles lit and had propped them up in makeshift candleholders.
Xander went to dish up the food, urging Giles to sit down and relax. "You had a long day," he said. "Let me do this. Besides, I know where everything is. Don't worry, I'll press you into domestic servitude in the morning." He put the plates on the table and sat down, and they both began to eat.
Giles swallowed a mouthful of fish and gave him a serene smile. "I'm on holiday. And a guest. I'm also spoiled rotten by finally being able to afford a cleaner, so you can do your own drudgery. I intend to sit right here, sipping a drink, working my way through the After Eights, and offering valuable pointers if I think you've missed a bit when you're washing up." He took another bite. "And as this tastes so good, I'll trust you to do all the cooking too."
He tried not to snicker with food in his mouth, and had to choke down the next bite before he could talk. "You haven't tasted what I can do to a pot of oatmeal, and believe me, you don't want to."
"Then I just won't get up until Mrs Stewart arrives with the bread for you to toast. You can give me breakfast in bed."
They finished the meal with a bit more casual conversation and then Giles stood up, carrying his plate over to the bin and, despite his earlier words, scraping it clean and putting it into the sink. "Speaking of bed, I think I'll call it a night, even if it's barely nine o'clock." He picked up a candle and walked back to the table, cupping one hand around the flickering flame. "Good night, Xander," he said, his voice as tired as his eyes. "You've been -- you've helped. A lot. Thank you."
And the crushing reminders just kept coming. "Yeah, well... thanks for caring enough to come and tell me in person."
Xander watched Giles retreat into the hallway, then sighed and started to clean up.
It wasn't like he expected to get much sleep anyway.
5.
So bolt the door, seal the cracks
Close your eyes don't look back
Giles stripped down to shorts and the t-shirt he'd worn under his shirt, climbed between sheets that were a little clammy, and waited for the room to stop spinning. Not the whisky; he hadn't had that much. Grief and guilt and...
he kissed me... wanted him... in the midst of life, we are... not her, not now... hair so soft... red hair... dark hair... my fault... he tasted so good....
Between one thought and the next, he fell asleep, his body tiring of waiting for his mind to quiet, threads of regret, remorse and desire tangling and binding him even as he slept.
He dreamed of Xander. Not for the first time, but not something that happened often. Dreams can't be bidden or summoned, after all. Giles could spend half an hour lying back on his couch, Xander's voice clear in his ear, and almost as long remembering that voice as the hand that had held the phone dealt with the resultant erection -- and still dream of nothing worth remembering past his first yawn. But sometimes he'd felt the weight of a strong body pressed against his, an eager mouth and hands teasing harsh moans from him as he remembered how it felt to be touched and tasted there... and there....
It wasn't like that now. Xander was over him, pinning him down, hard inside him, but Willow was there too, standing in the corner, screaming and bleeding, skin peeling from her in strips. Every thrust tore skin from flesh and he was trying to make Xander stop, because they were hurting Willow, trying to push him away, but Xander was falling forward, dead weight, dead, Xander was dead and he couldn't breathe...
Giles woke into darkness and panicked, his body shaking and his mouth dry. A match scraped and a yellow flame illuminated Xander's worried face. The bright light moved to the candle Giles had left beside the bed and lit it. Xander shook out the match and turned to Giles, standing beside the bed in sweat pants that were just too big for him, hanging low on his hips.
"I was..." Giles swallowed, trying to rid his mouth of sour dryness. "I was dreaming. Sorry. Did I wake you?"
"No. Couldn't sleep." Xander had something clenched in his fist, and it wasn't until he'd brought it up to his face and settled it there that Giles realized he'd been missing the eye patch until that moment. "I heard you moving around in here, and I thought..." His shrug didn't seem to mean a great deal, not in the darkness. "I wanted to make sure you were okay."
Giles tried to relax against the pillow, his body trembling with reaction. "Not really, but it'll pass. God, that was horrible." He decided not to describe the dream; they always sounded so foolish pared down to a handful of stumbling words; 'the monster under the bed reached out and grabbed me' wouldn't have had Stephen King snapping his pen in half with chagrin, but the dream that inspired it might have made any horror film seem pastel shaded in comparison because of what it meant to the child who dreamed it.
Giles wasn't a child and he wasn't about to give the dream substance by telling Xander half his guilt over Willow's death was caused by the knowledge that he'd been distracted from work by thoughts of the upcoming holiday -- which had led to it piling up, which had meant he was too busy to personally oversee all Willow had asked him to, which meant....
"Do you want to stay a while?" he asked. "I don't think I'll be going back to sleep just yet." He shuddered and felt the cool air raise every hair on his arms.
As if Xander had seen the shudder -- and for all Giles knew, he had -- he sat down on the edge of the bed and reached out to rub Giles' arm with a warm, work-roughened hand. "Sure. You want to talk about it? Or is this one of those things where we pretend it didn't happen?"
"I don't want to pretend with you about anything," Giles said slowly, "but I'd rather not talk about it. It was a nightmare, that's all. About Willow. Hardly surprising that I'd have one, but it's fading now." Xander's hand was chasing away the chill that seemed to be deep in his bones, but only where he was touching him. Giles looked at Xander, willing him to understand that this wasn't an attempt to force him into an intimacy he clearly didn't want, and said, "Would you just -- hold me? For a moment?"
Xander hesitated for only the briefest of instants before nodding and nudging Giles' thigh with his knee. "Move over."
Giles shifted obediently across the bed, wincing as he reached sheets that hadn't been warmed by body heat. "Remind me to buy a hot water bottle," he murmured, feeling the shivers chase over him again as he turned slightly to face Xander.
"Shh. Come here." Xander slid between the sheets and then pulled him closer, somehow managing to get one arm underneath his head so that Giles found himself cradled on Xander's shoulder as if it were a pillow. Xander's other bare arm wrapped around his waist. "Is this okay?"
Giles nodded, moving his head just enough for his answer to be clear. He'd been expecting a hug, no more, with Xander and he separated by sheets. This was wonderful -- warm skin and soft fabric against him, and Xander so close that each shiver was almost instantly calmed, until Giles sighed and allowed himself to relax completely. The arm he lay on was folded between them and he moved it so that his palm lay flat against Xander's chest, his other arm loose around Xander's back. He felt the heartbeat push against his hand and, almost without thinking about it, timed his breathing to match Xander's.
"This is nice," Xander said quietly a short time later. With their combined body heat beneath the covers, Giles was comfortably warm. "You can go back to sleep, if you want? I mean... I could stay."
"I want you to stay, but you need to sleep too," Giles said, the words coming out in a slow murmur. "Can you in here? With me?" He was too tired to hide behind evasions. "And I won't assume it sets a precedent and expect this tomorrow night, don't worry."
"I wasn't sleeping before. I might as well not sleep in here with you, instead of in the other room by myself." Xander sounded as weary as Giles felt.
That was enough to rouse Giles from the drowsiness that tugged at him seductively. "True, but if you think I can sleep knowing you're lying here trying not to disturb me, well, I can't. And if you go back to your room, I have a feeling I'll wake us both up again... so the only solution is that we both start counting sheep, or whatever you do to relax."
The arm he lay on was getting cramped and he eased back enough to be able to bring it across his body, brushing Xander's stomach as he did so with the back of his hand. Xander inhaled sharply as if startled, and his stomach muscles contracted. If Xander hadn't reacted it wouldn't have mattered, but discovering that even a fleeting, accidental touch was more than Xander was prepared to tolerate sent a flash of despair tinged with frustration through him.
Biting his lip, he said, "I'm sorry," in a voice that sounded unconvincing even to him.
But Xander's tone was quite possibly amused when he responded. "Is there some kind of a precedent for counting cold showers?"
"As opposed to sheep?" Giles said with a small chuckle, the despair having vanished as suddenly as it had arrived. He let the arm around Xander tighten slightly, bringing them a little closer together. "I don't think so. In the middle of a December night, in a chilly bedroom, why should the thought of cold showers be in the least relaxing?"
"I didn't say relaxing," Xander pointed out. He shifted his hips just the smallest fraction of an inch away from Giles in a way that made it completely clear what his problem was, even though it was just as clear that he didn't want to refer to it directly.
"Necessary before you can relax, then?" Giles wasn't sure he could cope with this -- the knowledge that Xander was lying next to him, aroused and hard, had made his own body respond instantly -- but he schooled himself to keep anything but a teasing amusement from his voice.
Xander sighed, and it seemed as though there were layers of meaning in the sound that Giles wouldn't have been able to interpret no matter how well he knew him. The hand behind him rubbed at his back briefly through the cotton of his t-shirt.
"Xander -- " A dozen sentences rose to Giles' lips, only to be discarded. Instead he moved back, just a little, hoping that would reassure Xander, and let his hand drift up to rest at the base of Xander's neck. With a slow, firm pressure he began to work at the tense muscles with his fingers.
It was dark in the room, the light from the candle flickering but enough to let him see Xander's eye close. "Thanks," Xander muttered after a moment, tilting his head slightly to allow Giles better access. His hair, long and surprisingly soft, lay across the back of Giles' hand.
The tension left Giles. He still wanted more -- wanted to kiss Xander without holding back, to touch him without hesitation -- but this was enough for now. He couldn't resist moving his hand up, threading it through the thick hair and spreading his fingers wide. He carried on moving his fingers in slow, short strokes and rubbed a little harder with his thumb, just behind Xander's ear.
Eye still closed, Xander's lips parted as he sighed again, although this time it seemed relaxed, simpler. Xander's hand, still resting near the small of Giles' back, began to move again, mirroring the movements of Giles' own hand, thumb moving in small circles over his vertebrae.
Xander tilted his head a bit more and raised his chin until his mouth brushed over Giles', so very lightly that it could barely be considered a kiss.
The memories that awoke of kissing Xander earlier made it impossible for Giles to keep the regular, soothing rhythm of his hand from faltering, but he disguised it by bringing his hand around to cup Xander's face. As he'd done before, he stroked his thumb gently across Xander's lips, feeling them part slightly, so that when he brought it back his thumb dragged and caught against the moist skin. Xander's hand on his back was making it very difficult to stay in control, but he risked one kiss, trying to make it as brief as Xander's had been. It was no good. He could keep the kiss light; lips closed, nothing but the slightest pressure, but once his mouth was on Xander's he couldn't help lingering.
As it turned out, all his caution was for naught, because a moment later Xander's tongue flicked across his lower lip, turning the kiss into something else altogether. Xander caught Giles' mouth with his own and held it, not aggressively but determinedly, the hand on Giles' back pulling him a bit closer as Xander made it very clear that Giles wasn't the only one craving more contact.
With a rush of relief, Giles returned the kiss, letting his hand slip around Xander's shoulder to lie against his back. That moved him forward just enough that his thigh brushed against Xander's, and he let it stay there without doing any more to bring them together. For tonight he was more than willing to let Xander set his own pace; give him whatever he wanted without pressure.
Slowly, languidly, he nipped at Xander's lower lip, kissing and biting it gently until Xander's mouth opened for him.
The inside of Xander's mouth, warm and inviting, tasted faintly of mint, and his tongue met Giles' in a way that was both tentative and strongly arousing. They took their time about getting to know each other -- long, slow kisses accompanied by the occasional gentle sound of pleasure. Giles felt Xander's hand move to the waistband of his t-shirt, then slide up underneath it, caressing the bare skin of his back.
As he had done since this began, Giles followed Xander's lead and added a little extra, letting his hand wander over Xander's back, blunt nails scraping and digging in just enough to be pleasurable, as his hand went lower, teasing the skin just above Xander's sweatpants but never going beyond that.
Xander arched against him, allowing Giles to feel the iron evidence of his desire plainly for just a moment before Xander's lower body moved back again, almost as though Xander weren't sure that his reaction had been acceptable, an assumption that was confirmed when Xander murmured, "Sorry -- couldn't help it."
Giles couldn't answer immediately because he was dealing with the flood of sensation that brief contact had sent washing over him. He couldn't remember ever feeling so aroused from just kissing and holding someone. Wanting more now, and praying Xander wouldn't pull back, he shifted forward until his erection was firm against Xander's body and murmured, "I'm not sorry, and I did that on purpose."
He felt Xander shudder, felt Xander's hand slide down the length of his spine and still lower until it was cupping his arse. "Tell me if you don't want..." Xander groaned softly as his hips pushed forward, and he seemed to forget what he'd been planning to say. "God you feel good."
"I want you, Xander. God, can't you tell?"
The waistband of Xander's sweatpants was loose enough that sliding his hand down and inside was easy, and Giles didn't hesitate, letting his palm curve against the flesh it held. He wanted to see Xander, strip them both bare and explore every inch of a body hidden from him by clothes, sheets and the near darkness, but, holding desperately to a control that was close to slipping from his grasp, he settled for kissing Xander, trying to make him see how willing he was to have this go as far as Xander wanted.
He could feel Xander hard against him and, almost without thinking about it, twisted around just enough that his erection lay against Xander's, rubbing against him with an urgency he couldn't hide any longer.
Xander clutched at him, his other hand going around to the back of Giles' head as they kissed more fiercely now. "If you don't want me to come we'd better stop," Xander managed. "It's been a long time. Not sure if I can -- " He gasped, trembling as he clearly fought off the release that his body so desperately needed.
"I do want you to, and if you want us to stop now, you'll have to come up with a very convincing reason," Giles said, his mouth a bare inch away from Xander's, kissing him between words because he couldn't not kiss Xander when he was right there. "But not like this -- "
He moved his hand up, gripped the top of Xander's pants and tugged at them, sliding them down a little with Xander's help, then he left Xander to deal with them while he rolled away and stripped off his own shorts and top. The cool air made him shiver as the sheets slipped away, but he hardly noticed. Even a few seconds without touching Xander seemed unbearably long, but it was worth it to have nothing between them.
Giles turned onto his side while Xander was still on his back and bent his head to kiss him, letting his hand trail up Xander's thigh.
Xander kissed Giles' mouth, sucking on his lower lip and catching it briefly between his teeth. Every muscle in the younger man's body was tensed as if holding back was almost more than he could handle, Xander's hands reaching to touch Giles greedily, running over his skin as if he needed to touch everywhere at once. Upper arms, shoulders, chest, stomach, and each place he touched left Giles warmed and aroused, aching.
Giles groaned, his hand on Xander's hip and his thumb making restless circles in the hollow beside it, longing to slide it across and touch Xander, feel him hard and hot in his hand. "You're just -- Xander, I can't -- "
Giving up on any attempt to be coherent, Giles moved down a little and kissed Xander's chest, open mouthed kisses that let him taste the skin against his lips, his hand moving slowly across Xander's stomach, trying not to lose himself so much in the pleasure he was feeling that he missed any sign that Xander wanted him to stop.
Not that there seemed to be indications of that, not with the way Xander was writhing slowly against the sheets, one hand gripping onto the pillow beneath his head while the other continued to touch Giles. "Please," Xander gasped. "God, Giles..."
That was too much for Giles to take. He reared up, throwing the sheets off them so that he could see Xander properly, one swift, possessive glance that left him shaking, because if Xander was close to pleading, Giles was ready to beg.
But he didn't have to. He lay against Xander and reached down between them, running his fingers over Xander's cock without any attempt to be gentle or to tease. Not now. He felt it jerk and twitch and jump in his hand and smiled down at Xander, holding it tightly and stroking his thumb along the underside from base to tip. He was so close to coming just from that, just from touching Xander and feeling his own erection against Xander's skin. He moved across enough that their cocks touched and let his hand slip to the side.
Xander was panting, desperate needy breaths accompanied by soft whimpers on the exhale, twisting beneath Giles. And then all at the same time his hand grabbed onto Giles' hip hard enough to bruise, and he thrust upward against Giles' body, the head of his cock bumping slickly along Giles' own erection.
A low groan escaped Xander, and Giles felt the hot wet throbbing of the other man's release along his own skin.
It was all Giles needed. Slick skin to thrust against, the sounds Xander was making -- no, sounds he was making -- and he felt his hips jerk forward helplessly, his hands clutching at Xander, needing to anchor himself against him as he came, needing to watch Xander's face twist and slacken, Giles a step behind him all the way, so that when the last shudder left him, Xander's arms were around him, holding him close.
Sated, he listening to his own breathing gradually slow and the sound of the wind outside blowing the rain against the windowpane. Xander's hand stroked along his back gently, making him feel cared for, cherished. "Okay, that was way better than counting sheep," Xander said after another minute or so, his voice sleepy.
Giles smiled against Xander's shoulder and kissed it gently. "Better, yes, you'll not get any argument from me there... but slightly messier. Let me find something -- "
He summoned up a last flicker of energy and lifted his head. Beside the candle were his glasses, and in front of them a box of tissues, new and with the first tissue neatly pulled out. Somehow Giles felt he had Mrs Stewart to thank for them, even if she'd probably not expected them to be put to this use. Grabbing a handful, he took care of Xander, who looked as if he'd be asleep in minutes, and then himself, before blowing out the candle.
He was pleasantly surprised when, even half asleep, Xander pulled him close again, settling them into a comfortable position. "You okay?" Xander mumbled.
Giles brushed back a lock of Xander's hair that was tickling his nose and smiled into the darkness. "Far more than that. I -- " He hesitated. No. Telling Xander he loved him wouldn't be a lie; it'd been true on a different level for years now, after all, but not tonight. "Thank you. Now sleep, or you'll make me think you do prefer sheep after all."
He could feel Xander's answering smile against his temple. "Haven't been in Scotland that long," Xander said, but almost immediately afterward Giles felt him relax into sleep with a gentle sigh.
Giles closed his eyes and pushed everything from his mind but Xander. He half wanted to stay awake because he couldn't recall the last time his body had felt like this; relaxed, satisfied, alive, and if he could have seen Xander and watched him sleep, he might have tried, but the darkness was absolute and he fell asleep almost at once.
His sleep held dreams, but no more nightmares.
6.
Xander knew as soon as he started to wake up that he wasn't in his own bed, because there was someone else with him, warm and actually really comfortable. Then he remembered that it was Giles, and simultaneously realized that the reason he'd woken up was because someone was standing in the doorway to the room.
And that someone was Mrs. Stewart.
He only thought about trying to hide for like a second, he told himself.
"Imph." It'd taken him a while to get used to that sound, which had about as many meanings as she wanted it to. Today it seemed to be disapproving. "There's food on the table, and I see you left me a sink full of dishes and not put them in to soak, either." Giles stirred beside him, all sleepy murmurs and hands in all the wrong places. "And if that poor gentleman catches his death from those damp sheets, I'll nae have it on my conscience and that's a fact."
With great strength of will, Xander resisted pulling the covers up over his head. "Right. Sorry. I'll, um... what time is it?"
Mrs. Stewart made that sound again. "It's nearly nine or I wouldn't be here."
He groaned slightly, then immediately felt guilty even despite the distraction that Giles' hand was providing. "Okay, sorry. I'll... um, we'll be right down."
She swept out, closing the door behind her with a firm click, grimly victorious, and Giles, without even opening his eyes, said, "I take it that was the redoubtable Mrs Stewart? I'd have introduced myself, but I'd prefer to meet her when I'm dressed and shaved. First impressions are so important, don't you think?" His eyes opened and he grinned at Xander, looking relaxed and rested.
Xander smiled back and leaned in to give Giles a quick kiss because somehow it seemed rude or something not to, noting that the power was back on, the bedside clock flashing. "I'm just gonna go take a quick shower before she comes back up and starts asking what's taking us so long."
Giles quirked an eyebrow. "I think if we failed to show up, she'd know perfectly well why, and not come anywhere near us, but by all means, go ahead." There was a faint trace of disappointment in his voice and the laughter had gone from his eyes.
"You just don't know her yet," Xander said, like he was being reassuring, and got up, pulling on his sweatpants quickly so that he could go across the hall to his own bathroom. "Go ahead and grab one too if you want -- there's plenty of hot water, and clean towels and everything."
He was grateful to be able to disappear under the spray of hot water, to try to pretend like the night before hadn't happened. But he couldn't completely manage it. He kept thinking about the way Giles smiled, and the way Giles touched him, and how John had said something about the reason Xander wasn't ready had been because John wasn't the person he was ready for.
And then he thought about how everyone he cared about died. Jesse. Anya. And now Willow. Heck, even Buffy had died, more than once. Him caring about people -- loving them -- was like a death sentence. Thinking about how something could happen to Giles made him feel sick, and scared, and sick again.
Xander spent way too long in the shower, dried himself off while repeating that the night before had been a one night thing and that was all, that it wasn't going to happen again, then pulled on some clothes so that he could head downstairs.
So of course he met Giles in the hallway right outside his door.
"I was hoping I'd catch you before we went downstairs," Giles said. "My courage fled at the last moment when I thought about meeting Mrs Stewart by myself." He stepped closer and touched his hand lightly to Xander's face. "You're looking a little stressed yourself. She really didn't seem all that bothered, you know. I'd say she was the unflappable sort."
"Oh, she's flappable," Xander said, wanting instinctively to lean into Giles' touch, but reminding himself that it wasn't a good idea. "It's just hard to know what's going to make her flap."
"From what you've told me, making a mess might do it... oh. We're doomed then." Giles smiled, smoothing Xander's damp hair back. "Kisses aren't terribly messy though."
He leaned forward and kissed Xander with a confidence he hadn't shown the day before.
You have to protect him, Xander repeated to himself, letting the kiss happen. God, this was harder than he'd thought it would be. When it had ended, he said, "Look, Giles... about last night. It was good... great, even. But... I don't want us to, you know, rush into anything." There, that was good, right? Breaking the news gently?
So how come it hurt so much?
Giles didn't do more than step back, but suddenly it was as if he wasn't there anymore, not the way he had been. He looked as if he was working something out, and Giles was good at that, so it didn't take long for his eyes to go distant. Then he said quietly, "I think you told me that yesterday, didn't you? I'm sorry you had to remind me." He moved to the side and nodded at the stairs. "After you."
God, he couldn't do it, couldn't let Giles just....
Xander reminded himself that he'd walked on out Anya on their wedding day to protect them both. Somehow, even though it seemed like it should have been, this wasn't any easier. "I think I'm going to skip the breakfast thing -- there's some stuff I need to check outside. The supply shed, make sure everything's still okay and..." He was babbling, and he knew it. "Go on and eat, I'll find you in a little while, okay?"
Knowing that it was probably totally obvious that he was running away, Xander fled.
Giles watched him go and resisted the urge to slam his fist against the wall -- which wasn't plasterboard and would hurt like hell. That wasn't why he didn't though. He'd have welcomed the physical pain if it would wipe out the emotional, but he was old enough to know it wouldn't.
A door slammed, caught by the wind perhaps, as Giles could hear that the storm hadn't blown itself out yet by any means. He stood in the hall, torn between confusion and dawning knowledge. He should have expected this. What had he been thinking would happen? That Xander would wake up, all over Willow's death, and ready to spend the day in bed fucking? Giles forced himself to put it like that, bringing everything down to the simplest level he could, trying to see....
He walked into the bathroom he'd just left and took off his glasses, staring into the fogged mirror. Then he splashed water over his face to give himself an excuse to wipe it dry with the towel.
Through the connecting door to his bedroom, he could see the edge of his suitcase. Just as well he hadn't unpacked.
Meeting Mrs Stewart alone proved to be easier than doing it with Xander would have been. She was about Giles' age, perhaps a little older, a short, slight woman who bustled about the kitchen with an efficiency that was more than a little intimidating. As Giles walked in, she glanced around and met his smile.
"Good morning," said Giles.
"Morning," Mrs Stewart said. "You'll be Mr Giles then? I thought you weren't expected for another day or two."
Giles hesitated and then shrugged mentally. Willow's death wasn't a secret after all and he could save Xander the ordeal of telling people. He could do that much at least.
"There was bad news, I'm afraid. A friend of Xander's -- a childhood friend. She died -- " Giles tried to control his voice so it didn't shake. "She died abroad. I was notified as she... I knew her too. I didn't want to tell Xander over the phone, but the news couldn't wait so I changed my plans. I got here late yesterday."
He gave her an assessing look. Kind beneath the snappiness. Xander would need that. "Unfortunately, I have to leave again right away. Funeral arrangements -- " That was a lie. Willow's body was to be cremated, and the ashes scattered. Kennedy had been sent to Buffy, and all had been smoothed over in a matter of hours. The Council still had influence, and in these early days Giles was using it without caring that he was seen as ruthless in some quarters. "But I can see I'm leaving him in good hands. He's told me how kind you've been to him. Thank you."
"He's a good lad. I thought there might have been something wrong -- this is the first time I've known him to miss a meal." Yes, definitely sympathetic, and obviously concerned. Mrs Stewart finished wiping off the countertops, dried her hands on a towel, and nodded. "I've another house to take care of, so I'll be off." She looked at him speculatively for a moment. "I'm sorry for your loss," she said formally.
"Yes. She was -- I'm going to miss her more than I can say." Giles took a deep breath. "It seems to have stopped raining; do you know if the ferry is running again? I really should make an early start."
Leave. Leave Xander before he did any more to hurt him, before Xander had to spell it out that he'd no interest in the man who'd killed Willow, and then try, at a safe distance, to salvage something from the ruins of their friendship.
To his dismay, Mrs Stewart shook her head slightly. "Winds are supposed to pick up again -- this is just the eye of the storm, as it were. Don't imagine the ferry will run again before tomorrow afternoon." She finished putting on her boots and paused to tie her hat firmly onto her head with a scarf. "You have a good day, and be sure to look after that young man while you're here."
She opened the side door, and then paused with her back to Giles. He heard her say something to someone and felt his heart stutter briefly with the assumption that it was Xander, but then John McIntyre slid past her and entered the kitchen.
"Good morning. I just came by to see how you and Xander weathered the night, what with the storm and all."
Giles gave in to the inevitable and abandoned all hope of a quiet breakfast. It wasn't as if he hadn't got used to people barging in when he lived in Sunnydale, after all. Mrs Stewart had started off a pot of coffee, and it had just spluttered out the final drops, so he walked over to it, snagged two mugs from the drainer and lifted an eyebrow at John. "Coffee? Xander's outside, but if you have a minute perhaps we could talk."
He wasn't quite sure what had prompted that; John was the last person he felt like talking to right now, but he owed the man an apology if nothing else. And yes, he was curious. He hadn't felt comfortable asking Xander much about John; none of his business, not really -- but he still couldn't see why nothing had happened between them. It didn't make sense, and he realized that at the back of his mind he'd been trying to work it out without success.
John and Xander had kissed. A lot. That meant it hadn't been a disaster, and now Giles knew first hand how well Xander kissed, that didn't surprise him. It wasn't unlikely that they would have left it at that on that first night, but why never try again? They were clearly still close and comfortable enough to hug without -- Giles forced the memory of Xander in John's arms out of his head and waited for John to answer.
The other man accepted the cup of coffee and nodded cautiously. "I suppose that depends upon what you want to talk about."
"The weather?" Giles said sarcastically, setting his cup down on the table and sitting down. John sat too, still looking cautious. "No, perhaps not." Giles made an effort to control his temper. He'd liked John and he could appreciate the loyalty that had made John speak of Xander as no more than a casual acquaintance, but he still felt somehow betrayed. Foolish. Which was ridiculous. "Look, I wanted to just -- I wanted to apologize. Last night, I was tired and you know why I came here. Xander told you about Willow. Seeing you and Xander was -- a shock. One too many. I had no right to be so -- I'm sorry."
Giles wondered how many times he'd said that since he arrived. Too many.
"I'm sorry. About the lass," John said, as if he was still testing the waters of the conversation. "I know Xander cared for her a great deal, and I'd the impression that you did as well. That you were all... close." It sounded as though there were multiple layers of meaning to his words.
"'Close'? Well, yes, we were all very -- " Belatedly, Giles realized how that must sound to an outsider and tried to clarify it. "What I told you yesterday was true, as far as it went. I met Xander -- and Willow -- when I was a librarian at their school. There was a small group of special students and I had quite a bit to do with them after school -- " and I sound like someone who should be locked up. God. " -- helped them with... projects -- oh for God's sake. I was their friend. No more than that, and yes, I'm well aware that I'm old enough to be Xander's father -- " Which was factually true, though he'd never felt like that, not really. Fathers didn't shove their children into situations where they could get killed, didn't teach them to fight demons. "It's really none of your -- it's complicated."
Giles took a gulp of coffee to shut himself up, as nothing he was saying seemed to be remotely helpful.
The way John was watching him made him supremely uncomfortable. "Complicated, aye. That's one word for it." The man sipped his coffee, then offered, "I wanted him, you know. I'd imagine you'd have guessed that sooner or later, if you haven't already."
It would have been giving too much ground to splutter and choke on his mouthful of coffee, but it took all Giles' willpower to swallow, replace his mug on the table, and meet John's gaze without flinching.
"I didn't need to guess. Xander told me. Oh, not when it happened." Yes, that still rankled, didn't it? Giles wondered bleakly which night it had happened and if he could remember Xander sounding different when he called next.... "He told me last night. Said it hadn't gone far and it hadn't worked out." Giles waited for any tell-tale flicker in John's eyes that would made Xander a liar. When none came, he added, "I've known him for eight years and never realized he was interested in men. Too close to him, perhaps. You knew right away?"
"Suspected right away," John said, looking down at the surface of his coffee. "You never know for sure until someone comes right out and says it, do you." The man was holding his mug between both hands, and when he spoke next it was almost casual... but not quite. "I should have known from the way he talked about you that I didn't have a chance. But I wanted him, you see, and sometimes, when you want someone like that, you work hard at not seeing the things that are right in front of your eyes."
"The way he talked about me?" Giles stared at John in some confusion. "Xander didn't know the way I felt about him -- nor did I until recently, come to that -- and now he does, now we've -- well, he's made it fairly plain he's not interested. I think you must have misunderstood him." Giles looked across the table, feeling unwilling sympathy for the man. "I think we both did."
But strangely, John was giving him a look that said quite plainly that he thought Giles was terribly, terribly stupid. "No. I've never heard anyone talk about someone the way he talks about you. Oh, I did wonder if he even realized it, what with the way he never came right out and said it -- but there's not a doubt in my mind."
"But what did he say?" Giles felt the hope John's words had kindled flicker and die. "Not that it matters now. Willow's death -- he blames me, I know he does, now he's had a chance to think about it." He paused and took a deep breath. "Last night -- I woke up after a bad dream. Xander came into my room and ended up staying the night. Too soon... stupid of me, but it wasn't planned... now this morning he's telling me to back off, not rush it -- " He took one last swallow of coffee and finished rather bitterly, "And Mrs Stewart walking in on us didn't help."
John set his mug down on the table. "Sounds to me as if he finally realized what I've known for weeks, and it scares the hell out of him." The man stood up and took the mug to the sink, then he turned and leaned against the countertop. "I'm thinking he's probably feeling as if he's lost a lot recently. Too much."
Giles twisted around in his chair. "He has. You've really no idea how much. Being here's helped him though; somewhere different, doing a job he loves, making new friends. Like you. Now I've come and brought nothing but trouble. I can't leave today, because of the ferry, but as soon as I can, I'm going to give him the space he's asked for." Maybe if he said he was leaving often enough, it'd stop feeling as if he was turning his back on something good, and more like the right thing to do.
"I'll ask you to forgive me for saying so if it offends you, but you're acting remarkably like a stupid fuck," John said bluntly, crossing his arms and frowning at Giles. "He's afraid -- afraid of losing one more person he cares about. No -- one more person he loves." Giles opened his mouth to protest, but John held up a hand to silence him. "I may not be brilliant, Mr Giles, but I'm right about Xander. And if you leave here without getting him to admit it, well... then I guess you don't care for him the way I think you do."
Giles stared at him, wanting to be convinced and, just because it was what he wanted, struggling against it. Finally he spoke. "I'm not at all offended and if I were, I'd deserve worse than that from you. I just can't believe -- " He grimaced. "You're standing there wondering what the hell Xander sees in me, aren't you? Never mind. I can't say I'm as convinced as you, but I'll try and see if I can reassure him that he's not going to lose me. Given recent events, that's not as easy as it sounds." Giles stood up and looked out at the rain that was beginning to patter against the window. "I'll get my coat and see if I can find him."
John nodded without smiling, turning towards the door, and Giles said, "And you can't call me a stupid fuck and Mr Giles in the same breath, you know." John swung back to look at him and Giles smiled. "Up to you, of course, but maybe next time we meet, you could make it 'Giles' or 'Rupert'?"
"I suppose I might be able to do that," John acknowledged, then paused before adding, "He's a good man. Don't you let him get away." Without another word, he slipped out through the doorway into the rain.
7.
The silence of the house settled around Giles, peaceful rather than lonely, quieting the thoughts that were chasing around his head. Deciding that going without breakfast wasn't really a good idea, and that the steady rain would probably bring Xander inside soon enough, he set about making himself some toast and topping up his coffee. As he chewed the thick, dense bread, apparently baked on the island from the wrapper, he let John's words run through his mind. They were less convincing without John right there, but after he'd listed half a dozen reasons why it would be best for everyone if he left, all answered and dismissed by an inner voice that seemed to have developed a Scottish lilt, Giles gave up trying to argue with himself.
It might well not work out, but they'd never know until they tried. Giles stood up and had a brief flash of Xander lying beneath him, coming so hard Giles still had bruises where Xander's hand had dug into his hip. Give it time? Give him space? He'd had an hour. That was plenty.
Giles walked into the hall and reached for his coat. As Xander seemed to have developed the same indifference to the weather that John had, perhaps he was still outside, in which case -- a rhythmic thudding noise began and Giles frowned. He walked around the ground floor without finding the source and then saw a door he hadn't tried. He opened it and looked down a flight of stairs. Realization dawned; Xander had told him that the house had a huge cellar, surprisingly dry and airy, and perfect for a training room. The thuds took on a familiarity that made Giles smile, remembering hours of watching Buffy train, small fists slamming against a punching bag and producing just those sounds.
He walked down the stairs and stood half way down, looking around. Xander had put his heart into renovating this room, just as he'd done with the one on which it was modeled. If not for the size -- this had easily three times as much floor space -- he might have thought himself back in the Magic Box. Then he turned his head enough to see Xander and felt a surge of uncomplicated lust that left him breathless.
Xander was barefoot and bare chested, wearing nothing but a pair of jeans that managed to cling to him and still ride low enough for Giles to be fairly certain they were all he was wearing. It didn't take much to work out why they didn't fit. Xander had lost enough around the waist for them to be loose, but the weeks of hard work had added muscle to his body. His back was turned to Giles, darkly tanned and smooth. He was driving his fists against the canvas with enough force to make it swing in ponderous circles, forcing him to shift position every few punches. Giles could hear his breath rasping out and the grunts he made as his fists connected. Xander's long hair was damp from the rain and it clung to his neck in thick, dark strands. Giles remembered how it had felt against his hand the night before and bit his lip. God, how was he supposed to go over to Xander and produce rational, logical arguments -- or even heartfelt impassioned pleas -- when all he wanted to use his mouth for was getting more of those whimpery, desperate sounds out of Xander?
Then Xander turned enough to see him and Giles straightened up and walked to the foot of the stairs and over towards him.
Xander gave a small nod, acknowledging his presence before shifting to the right and hitting the bag again in a series of punches that sounded loud despite the size of the room. "Hey," he said. "Did you get some breakfast?" He sounded as if he were trying very hard to act normally, to pretend as though nothing had happened between them.
"Got some toast -- you should have made it, I burned the edges a little -- and coffee to wake me up. Had a brief conversation with Mrs Stewart who said I had to look after you while I was here -- " Giles stepped out of reach of the bag which swung wildly after a punch that was strong but uncontrolled, " -- and a somewhat longer, and considerably more frank, discussion with John in which he told me much the same thing using words I doubt Mrs Stewart would approve of."
The bag came right at Giles then and he leaned back without giving ground, and then reached out to brace it so Xander could stay still and hit it as hard as he liked.
Xander faltered briefly, looking at him as if trying to assess whether or not this was a serious conversation. "John said what?" he asked, taking advantage of the pause in movement and hitching his jeans up a bit higher.
"You're lifting your shoulder too much," Giles said, feeling that Xander's jeans had looked better where they were. "Hmm? John? Oh, nothing vital. Ferry's not running, more rain coming -- no, that was Mrs Stewart. John's the one who told me you were in love with me. As you can imagine, he had my undivided attention after that. Just out of curiosity, were you planning to mention it yourself at any point?"
Instead of answering immediately, Xander rocked his weight forward again and hit the bag three times, all with his right hand and with enough force to make the tendons in his neck stand out in sharp relief. "John," Xander said through gritted teeth, "needs to mind his own business." Giles couldn't help but note that it wasn't a denial, and that gave him hope that he was on the right path.
Xander stepped back, forward again, and slammed his left fist into the punching bag, this time dropping his shoulder instead of lifting it.
"Better. Try and aim though; you're a little wild at times. Focus. Yes, I told him that too, and mentioned that I was planning to leave as soon as the ferry was running, at which point he called me a stupid fuck and we parted best of friends."
Giles realized that he was enjoying himself because this was a fight, yes, but it wasn't one he planned to lose. Exhilaration fizzed and sparkled through him, countered by an ache low down every time Xander snarled and thumped the bag. As foreplay, it was proving effective, if violent.
"Well, good," Xander said, shifting to the left before giving a quick series of jabs, narrowing his eye. "I'm glad you and John are getting along so well." He punctuated the words with swift punches, then surprised Giles by spinning and adding a kick to the mix.
Giles rode out the kick. It had hurt, but as he'd been very close to delighted laughter before most of his breath had been knocked out of him, that was probably for the best.
"You'd rather we came to blows over you? Pointless. Even if he won -- and he might be younger than me, but I doubt he would, and if you disagree, I'd rather you kept silent on the matter to spare my ego -- I still wouldn't let him near you." Xander glared at him and Giles gave him his most charming smile. "It'll probably wear off, but right now I'm feeling more than a little possessive. Comes of being so close to losing you, I suppose."
The next punch went wild, striking a glancing blow that caused the bag to rock awkwardly and made Xander bring what were presumably skinned knuckles to his mouth briefly. "You never had me," Xander snarled, shaking his hand and stepping in to slam it into the bag again. "Trust me, I'm doing you a favor."
"'A favor'? Not from where I'm standing. And what about last night, Xander? Was that a favor too? Show me what I could have had? Send me away with a happy fucking memory? Remind me to thank you properly for that little Christmas present."
Giles was getting angry now, losing the fine edge that had let him goad Xander so effectively, and discovering what it felt like to be on the receiving end of a few well-chosen words.
"Last night was because -- " Xander started defensively, then he cut himself off and shook his head. "It doesn't matter." Two more punches that weren't nearly as effective as they should have been. "This is... it's just better this way, okay? Just let it go."
Giles schooled his voice back to the cheerful breezy tone he'd been using. "Oh, I'm sorry; did I miss the part where that made any sense at all? Let's see. I come here, desperately in love with you, find out you love me too from someone you've apparently been boring to death by talking about me, have sex that, yes, was over just a little too fast, but I'm sure with practice we'll improve, and if I let my mind wander just a little bit, it seems to default to a picture of you on your back moaning my name for some reason, can't think why that stuck with me, and -- go on, tell me again why I should walk away from that? From you. Because I just can't see it, Xander."
Giles moved back and punched the bag savagely, stepping past it as it swung to the side, and pushing Xander back out of the way of the return swing with a hard shove.
The expression Xander turned to him then, little as Giles liked knowing he'd had a hand in putting it there, seemed to be the first honest one he'd seen all day. Desperate, haunted, hurting. "I can't do this again," Xander said, his voice raised. "I can't. Giles, I -- " He turned away, his back to Giles, visibly trembling beneath the fine sheen of sweat on his skin.
"Do what, Xander? Tell me? Please?" Giles' voice was calm now and as gentle as he could make it. He lifted his hand and then hesitated and let it drop back. Not yet.
"Can't -- " But Xander stopped himself again, turning to drive his fist into the bag so low and off-center that it rocked on its chain and spun in a lazy spiral. "I'm not stupid, you know." He reached out and steadied the punching bag with his left hand, then hit it again with his right.
"You're hurting yourself for nothing," Giles said. There was a red sheen of blood across Xander's knuckles now and the skin was fretted and raw, but that wasn't what he meant. "Sorry, but I can't see that as being particularly clever."
"For nothing?" Xander turned to face him, fists clenched. "I'm trying to -- you think I can just stop? Well, sorry to have to tell you, Giles, but it's not that easy."
"Tell me? You're not telling me anything, that's the problem. Just what exactly are you trying to do? Give me details, and forget the not rushing, need space crap because that's all that is."
Giles didn't take his eyes off Xander's face, searching for something amid the confusion and pain that would make sense of all this. John had said Xander was scared of losing him -- hadn't he made it clear he wasn't going anywhere? What was stopping Xander from seeing that?
"I'm trying not to lo -- " Xander stopped, looking down at the floor. Giles began to think that he'd gladly give any sum of money for Xander to just finish a bloody sentence, but he waited, hoping that his continued silence would allow Xander to complete his thought. Finally, Xander said roughly, "Everybody dies, right?" His gaze flickered up to meet Giles' for the briefest instant. "Or maybe just everybody I love."
"Everybody dies?" Giles grasped that dangling end and began to tug at it, trying to unravel the knot Xander had made. "Yes. Everybody does. It's what happens. To some people -- Willow and Tara, for instance -- it happens sooner than we'd like. Sooner than they deserve. Agreed. But you love plenty of people who are still alive, Xander, so don't make it sound as if you're some sort of jinx -- oh. You do, don't you? You think there's a connection. You love them; they die." Giles felt the surge of satisfaction he got from knowing he'd translated something correctly; an unshakable certainty. Then it was lost in anger. "Of all the arrogant, idiotic assumptions! You're scared I'll die if you love me? Is that it?"
Xander didn't respond, just stood there with one arm wrapped around his torso, hand gripping the opposite elbow. He looked for all the world like someone waiting for a lecture that he was determined not to listen to, but there was something about the way he was breathing -- just the tiniest bit unevenly -- that let Giles know that Xander was more upset than he appeared.
"You loved Willow all her life, Xander. You saved her life, if it comes to that. You didn't take it from her. Her own -- " Giles forced himself to say it, knowing Xander wasn't the only one who'd been hugging guilt to him like a comforter. "Her own actions did that. You had nothing to do with it. Loving me won't doom me. It'll make me happy. Make me proud. God knows, we've earned some happiness." He stepped close to Xander, still not touching him, and stared at him, willing him to understand. "Do you think Willow and Tara would have chosen not to have loved each other, if they'd known how short a time they'd have together? I don't. I can't promise you years, I can't swear I won't die, but I can tell you whenever it happens I'll die loving you and you can make all the decisions you want, but you can't make me stop wanting you, needing you."
Empty of words, Giles stood and waited for Xander to speak. Outside, the storm was sweeping over the island, and the cold rain was whitening to sleet, but here, protected by thick walls, built to withstand worse than this, there was nothing but an expectant, charged silence.
Xander's breath hitched, his arm tightening around himself. "It's not fair," he said in a small voice that clearly revealed his misery. "Giles..."
To Giles' relief, Xander stepped forward, allowing himself to be wrapped in a comforting embrace.
"I need you too," Xander whispered against Giles' shoulder, and then he began to weep almost silently.
Continued in Part 2
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